


A Mere Mortal, Nothing More

by CelestialVoid



Series: The Mortal Instruments [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Mortal Instruments, Alternate Universe - Mortal Instruments: City of Bones, Alternate Universe - Shadowhunters, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Betrayal, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Demons, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Isaac Lahey's Past Abuse, M/M, Magic AU, Marks, Mention of Past Abuse, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Child Abuse, Runes, Shadowhunter!Allison, Shadowhunter!Cora, Shadowhunter!Derek, Shadowhunter!Isaac, Shadowhunter!Lydia, Shadowhunters - Freeform, Slow Build Allison Argent/Isaac Lahey, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Slow Burn, Slow Burn Allison Argent/Isaac Lahey, Slow Burn Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski's Past Abuse, Tattoos, Unrequited Crush, Unrequited Love, Vampires, Violence, Warlock!Stiles, Warlocks, Wendigos, Werewolves, mention of suicide, this story has so many tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-11-11 12:45:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 55,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11148711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CelestialVoid/pseuds/CelestialVoid
Summary: Allison Argent was just your average seventeen-year-old until one night when she saw something she shouldn’t have. He life overturned and her father missing, she must find her place in a world full of demons, ‘hunters, vampires and werewolves.





	1. The Nightclub

The rhythmic pounding of the music filtered into the street, the heavy base rattling their chest every time the door opened and another person was permitted to enter. It was an all-ages club that was incredibly popular on Sunday nights – probably because that’s when they hosted their neon parties. The bouncers were specific who they were letting in: stopping anyone who was intoxicated or looked like they were ready to start a fight.

It was hours to wait, but that didn’t mean it was boring; standing outside in the quiet of the night was kind of peaceful. Allison spent most of the wait staring up at the twinkling stars that broke through the wisps of cloud and blinding light pollution of the city.

“They’re beautiful, aren’t they?” Scott asked as they took another step forward in the queue.

“Yeah,” Allison muttered thoughtfully, not taking her eyes off the clear patch in the sky. “You used to be able to see them really clearly where I lived in France. It was wonderful.”

“You really miss France, don’t you?” Scott said, a pang of jealousy and pain in his voice.

Allison shrugged. “It was nice, but I didn’t get to live there long enough to know whether I’d like it or not.”

They finally reached the front of the line. The music was louder now and, as the door swung shut on the last person who entered, Allison caught a glimpse of the strobing fluorescent paint as the teenagers in the club danced to the music.

The bouncer let them pass.

They entered the club, the crowded dancefloors full of dry-ice smoke and painted bodies. Small LED lights strobed in different colours, igniting the beads of sweat that gathered on the flesh of the dancing teens. Everything was a blur of vibrant blues, acid greens, fluorescent pink and shades of orange and gold.

Scott and Allison made their way over to the corner where buckets of paint were set up.

“So, are you going to paint me?” Allison teased as she stripped off her thick leather jacket and revealed the pink crop top that glowed in the black light.

Scott’s eyes flew open wide. He swallowed hard and stammered, “Uh… yeah.”

He picked up one of the brushes and began to paint her skin, the soft hairs of the paintbrush gliding across her luminescent flesh and leaving trails of colour that blossomed into the shapes of vines, flowers and gems. Soon, she looked as if she were wearing a masterpiece of floral necklaces that branched up to caress her cheek.

“Strip,” Allison instructed, taking the brush from Scott.

His eyes grew even wider.

Allison chuckled, putting him at ease slightly. Her teeth glowed in the light, her smile even more radiant that usual.

“I know you only came here because I wanted to,” she told him. “But, while you’re here, you might as well enjoy yourself. Now, take off your shirt so I can paint you.”

Scott nodded, stripping his shirt over his head and revealing his toned abs. He was a good-looking man – there was no doubt about that – with his olive-coloured skin, his sweet smile, and his mop of brown hair that could never be styled right.

Allison made quick work of painting him – her natural artistic talent and knowledge from her art lessons clearly showing through as she covered his skin in fluorescent colours that formed the shape of tribal lines, spreading out into vines and fire the further they got from his chest.

She took a step back and admired her masterpiece. Her face twisted into a thoughtful expression before she dipped her finger in the glowing paint and spread it across her lips. He cupped Scott’s face and pressed a kiss to his cheek, leaving the glowing kiss on his cheek.

Even in the dull light, she could see his cheeks warm with a soft pink blush as she took a step back, set the brush down and said, “Just in case anyone thinks to flirt with you.”

She knew Scott was a shy, well-mannered guy; he was not equipped with what it took to politely refuse anyone who flirted with him and often ended up getting himself into a situation he was uncomfortable it. At least this way, if anyone tried to approach him, they’d think he was taken and back off.

Allison snatched up his hand and dragged him towards the dancefloor.

Scott followed obediently, stepping between a cluster of people and standing near her as they began to move to the music.

Across the dancefloor, someone caught her attention: a young man – roughly seventeen or eighteen years old – with short brown hair and a bare chest painted to look like his torso had been torn into three bright pink gashes, the paint running down the curves of his muscles like blood – perfecting the illusion.

A girl across the room seemed to have caught his attention. She was about the same age as Allison – seventeen years old - and dressed in a sky blue shirt with small details cut out of the fabric like panels of a stained glass window without the colouring. Unlike Allison’s clothes, her shirt didn’t catch the light or glow, it was simply ghostly pale. She wore a short black skirt and black ankle boots. The long waves of strawberry-blonde hair was pulled back into a pony tail, not a single strand of hair falling about her face despite the rapid movements of the dancing. Half of her face was painted like a calavera, a rose drawn onto her forehead and her hairline, eye socket and cheek all highlighted by the outline of curves, circles and patterns that made her face look as fragile as lace. Her lips were a vibrant shade of crimson and her clear jade eyes caught the light like gems.

She stood by the far wall, not dancing or moving, just looking across the crowd as if she had lost someone. She met his gaze and a wicked smirk lifted the guy’s lips as he looked at her like a predator eyeing his prey.

She smiled at him – a sweet, shy smile – then turned and walked down the small hallway to her side, the one that led to the storage rooms, manager’s office and bathrooms.

He paused for a moment, looking around as if to see if anyone had noticed before following her.

Allison frowned, watching him pensively.

“Allison?” Scott’s voice seemed distant, drowned out by the thundering music and her own thoughts. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she muttered, not really paying attention as she stepped aside and said. “I’ll be right back.”

She followed the young man to where he had disappeared down the hallway.

They weren’t there. But she did see the door to the storage room slowly swing shut.

Allison rushed forward, shoving her foot in the door to stop it before slipping into the room and hiding behind a stack of boxes by the door.

The girl backed up to the far corner of the room, smirking mischievously as the guy sauntered forward. She backed up against a shelving unit full of boxes, her eyes not backing away from his for a second as she moved past the tangled wires and scattered boxes on the floor.

The guy kept stride with her.

Suddenly, her sweet smile fell from her face, a stern composure falling over her features as she grabbed something and lashed out at the guy. A coil of wire wound around his ankles, tightening and tripping him.

He hit the ground with a painful thud, hissing in pain as the wire bit into his flesh and drew blood around his ankles. Streams of black seeped into his jeans and covered his flesh as another three people emerged from the shadows: two guys and a young girl who looked no older than fifteen years old.

“Lookie lookie what we have here,” one of them – a boy about Allison’s age with thick sandy-blonde curls and bright blue eyes – said teasingly, his face lit by a mischievous smirk. His face had been painted, a green stripe dividing his face and running a border around the curls of blue and orange the lined the shape of his face like a tribal tattoo or the flickering flames of a raging inferno.

“I didn’t do anything,” the guy on the floor croaked, fear flooding his face as the others circled around him.

“Now, we all know that’s a lie,” the blonde scolded, reaching into the pocket of his leather jacket and pulling out a small knife. He towed with the gleaming end of the blade as he asked, “Are there any others here with you?”

“Any other what?” the guy asked.

The blonde rolled his eyes, obviously growing impatient. His bright blue eyes seemed to take on a whole new colour: a glowing azure as his glare focused on the other guy and he growled, “Any other wendigos; demons.”

The guy on the floor fell silent, staring up at the blonde with wide eyes full of horror and shock. It wasn’t the face of someone being accused of something, but rather of someone who’s secret had been found out.

“We know what you are,” the blonde said nonchalantly. “And I think you’re starting to realise what we are.”

The guy on the ground snarled, revealing sharpened rows of razor-like teeth as he hissed, “Shadowhunters.”

“Just kill it already, Isaac,” said the other young man – a tall guy with short black hair, a scruff of a beard, and a stature that made it clear he was the eldest of the group.

“I can tell you where Gerard is!” the bound boy said, panicked and frantic.

The older girl with copper curls scoffed. “We know where Gerard is.”

“He’s in hell,” the blonde boy – Isaac – added as he adjusted his grip on his knife as he knelt on the ground and straddled the demon, pinning him to the dusty concrete floor. “And you’re young to join him.”

“No,” Allison yelped, clamping her hand over her mouth.

All eyes turned on her.

The oldest of the group was the first to speak up, eyeing Allison as he asked, “What’s this?”

“It’s a girl,” Isaac replied. “Surely you know what a girl is, Derek; you’re sister’s one.”

The youngest girl in the group rolled her eyes and muttered, “Shut up, Isaac. You know that’s not what he meant.”

“I know,” Isaac said with a mischievous smirk. His icy blue eyes rolled over Allison as he muttered, “She’s a mundane… and she can see us.”

“Of course I can see you,” Allison snapped. “I’m not blind.”

“Oh, but you are,” Isaac mused, rising to his feet and spinning his knife about in his hand. His soft features took on a malice tone as he said lowly, “You’d better get out of here if you know what’s good for you.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Allison seethed. “If I leave, you’ll kill him.”

“We’re going to kill it regardless of whether you’re here or not,” the youngest replied bluntly.

“You can’t just go around killing people,” Allison cried.

“You’re right,” Isaac replied. “We can’t and we don’t.”

Allison looked at him, her brow furrowed with confusion.

Isaac pointed at the boy on the floor and said, “That’s not a person. It may look like a person, talk like a person and maybe even bleed like a person, but it’s not a human; it’s a monster.”

“Isaac,” the older boy, Derek, growled warningly. “That’s enough.”

Derek looked as if he was about to say something else when he was interrupted by an unhuman screech as the boy on the floor leapt up, snapping the cord around his ankle and lunging at Isaac. His jaw pulled back to reveal rows of razor-sharp teeth and his nails were extended into jagged talons as he slashed at Isaac, tearing through the dark fabric of his shirt and leaving long gashes torn out of his shoulder blades.

Isaac cried out, falling to the ground as the demon leapt on top of him and pinned him there. Isaac struggled, rolling onto his back and fighting off the demon’s talons as he leant forward. The wendigo’s rancid breath rolled across Isaac’s face.

Isaac glanced to the side, to where his knife lay, knocked out his hand and tossed among the stacked boxes.

Derek was the first to react, pulling a nightstick from his belt and smacking it across the wendigo’s face. The stick cracked the demon’s jaw, knocking him aside with a horrendous screech.

Isaac scrambled for his knife.

The wendigo righted itself, standing on its four legs like a feral hound. It turned on Allison, the colour of its eyes fading to a glossy, opaque white. It opened its mouth, strands of saliva and blood dripping from the jagged rows of teeth.

Her heart lurched into her throat, her hands shaking as she backed up against the wall.

The creature charged at her.

Her legs collapsed beneath her as she hit the ground, lifting her arm to shield her face.

She wanted to scream but no sound came out, she just watched as the creature charged at her.

Then it stopped, its body jerking – eyes wide and face twisted in fear and pain – before falling to the ground. The creature gyrated, spewing blood from its mouth as is hissed, “ _The forsaken will take you all_.”

Isaac stood over her, his face composed and his chest rising and falling with steady breaths as he stared down at the convulsing demon. He bent over and pulled the knife from the demon’s back, spurts of black blood smeared across the gleaming, crystal-like blade.

Allison watched as it disintegrated into a pile of ash, the swirls of smoky dust vanishing. From a distance, she could hear Isaac asking her if she was alright but she couldn’t reply, she felt a wave of bile rise into her throat, burning her oesophagus and choking her as she fought back the need to throw up. Her mouth was dry and her body was trembling, her eyes filled with hot tears that streaked her cheeks as she stared at where the body had fallen.

There was nothing, not even the faintest trace of ash or a disturbance of the dust on the floor.

“She knows too much,” Derek said quietly.

“She doesn’t understand,” the girl with the strawberry blonde curls replied.

“She’s seen us,” Derek added. “That’s too much.”

“She shouldn’t be able to see us, Derek,” the youngest girl added. “Maybe we should take her back with us. Deaton might be able to make sense of this. He could talk to her-”

“No,” Derek said firmly, interrupting his sister. “You know the rules, Cora: no mundane is allowed in the Institute.”

“But she’s not a mundane, is she?” Isaac said, looking down at Allison.

She finally drew her eyes away from the floor, numb tears streaking her cheeks as she stared up at Isaac.

Isaac met her gaze, squinting slightly as he inspected her. “What are you?”

The door to the storage room swung open as someone rushed inside. They dropped to their knees beside Allison, gently jostling her shoulder and calling her name.

Allison whipped her head about to look at them, meeting the soft brown eyes that were so familiar and comforting, and so full of fear as they looked at her.

He lifted a hand and gently brushed a strand of her dark hair behind her ear. He ran the ball of his thumb across her cheek, brushing aside the glistening tears that smeared the glowing paint across her skin. “Are you okay?”

Allison didn’t reply, she slowly turned her head, staring up at Isaac.

Scott turned.

“What?” he asked. “What is it?”

A smug smirk lifted the corners of Isaac’s lips; he knew Scott couldn’t see him – no-one could see him but her.

“Nothing,” Allison rasped.

Scott gently set his hands on her shoulders, holding her close and helping her to her feet as he encouraged, “Let’s go outside and get some fresh air.”

She nodded, weakly rising to her feet and falling into Scott’s arm as he guided her back through the crowd of sweat-soaked bodies and out into the cool air of the night. She stumbled forward to the curb, her head spinning and her gut lurching. He wrapped her arms around her stomach, bending over double as the world began to spin and she collapsed to the ground.

Scott followed her out to the curb, crouching beside her and talking softly as she began to shudder. He untied his jacket from his waist and lid it over her shoulders.

“Allison, have you taken anything?” Scott asked, his voice full of worry. “Drunk anything?”

Allison shook her head.

“Do I need to call you an ambulance?” he asked.

She shook her head again, another wave of tears trailing down her cheeks as she whimpered, “I want to go home. Please, can we just go home?”

“Okay,” Scott whispered, laying his arm around her shoulders and pulling her close to her chest. He pressed a soft kiss to the crown of her head before rising to his feet. He pulled his shirt out of his beltline and pulled it on before flagging down a taxi.

Scott helped her to her feet, unwrapping the jacket she had tied around her waist earlier and holding onto it as he guided her into the back of the taxi and gave the driver directions. He strapped the seatbelt around her trembling body and held her close as they drove on through the night.

“Allison,” Scott said softly. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Allison repeated, her voice weak and her eyes staring into the dark oblivion beyond the window of the taxi.

“You know you can tell me anything, right?” Scott whispered, craning his neck to look at Allison.

Allison turned to look at him, meeting his gaze as she nodded and muttered, “I know.”

Scott paused as if he waited for her to say something, but she couldn’t. He let out a soft sigh and nodded, pressing another kiss to the crown of her head and holding her close as they drove across Beacon Hills and back to Allison’s house.

The blonde’s face was burnt into her memory, his blue eyes sparkling as his voice rang in her head, _“What are you?”_

 

 

“I’ll pay for him to drive you,” Allison offered as she stepped out onto the curb before her apartment.

Scott shook his head. “Nah, I only live two blocks over. It’s a ten minute walk.”

“Scott,” Allison scolded. “I don’t like the thought of you walking home alone at this time of the night.”

“I’ll be okay,” he assured her. “Come on, I’ll see you up to your apartment and then I’ll head off. I’ll text you as soon as I get back.”

Allison sighed, her shoulders dropping in defeat as she nodded, pulling the keys to her apartment building from the pocket of her jeans.

She fumbled with the lock slightly, squinting in the dull light of the street lamp as she tried to find the lock with her trembling hand. Finally, it slid into the slot. She turned it, unlocking the door and stepping into the dark foyer.

It was a three storey building with only one other tenant: the young lady who claimed to be a prophetess, Miss Morrell. The other floor was up for rent since the tenant moved out a few weeks back, but despite the nice appearance of the apartments, not many people chose to rent here.

The building had a French aesthetic that made it feel homely: dark hardwood flooring, white walls, ornate banisters, a small garden out the front of the building and a cast iron gate. The foyer and hallways were decorated with large bouquets of white lilies, roses and lilies of the valley – they were fake and only there for the sake of making the place look classy, but it was a nice touch.

“Hold up a sec,” Scott said as he shut the door behind himself. He pulled out his phone and turned on the spotlight, lighting the stairwell as he walked with her up the fleets of stairs and up to Allison’s apartment. He held the light close as she slid her key into the lock.

She unlocked the door and opened it, leaving it off the latch as she turned to say goodbye to Scott.

He handed her the leather jacket he was holding onto and she took it from him with a soft smile. She began to shrug off the hoodie that Scott had given her when he stopped her and said, “You can give it back to me tomorrow or when I next see you.”

Allison nodded, her eyes heavy as fatigue began to wear on her.

“Have a glass of water, wash up and go straight to bed,” Scott instructed, giving her a tight hug.

“Text me as soon as you get home,” Allison said, a hint of a threat in her voice.

“I will,” he promised before turning to leave. He used the light on his phone to guide the way back down the stairs. She waited until she heard the front door click shut behind him, the deadlock sliding into place with a loud thud.

She turned around and stepped into her apartment, shutting the door behind herself and tossing the keys onto the small dresser by the door. She made her way down the narrow hallway, creeping past her dad’s office and the open doorway to the kitchen and dining area.

The lights were still on in his office and she knew her dad would be up waiting for her to get home, so she hurried down to her bedroom, ducking out of the hallway and shutting the door behind herself.

She tossed her leather jacket onto her bed and made her way across the room to the door that connected her bedroom to the small bathroom next door. She stripped off Scott’s baggy hoodie and picked up a towel. She turned on the taps and ran it under the water, watching as the pale blue cloth darkened. She lifted the cloth to her chest, wiping away the smears of fluorescent paint and sighing at the relief of the cold water.

Once the paint and makeup was washed off of her body, she stripped off the rest of her sweat-soaked clothes and got changed into the baggy tee-shirt and a pair of leggings that were tossed across her bed.

There was a soft knock at the door, the sound making her ump and spin about.

“Allison,” her father called from the other side of the door.

“I know, I know,” she muttered, breathing deeply to try and steady her breathing. “I’m late. But only by half an hour. The line was a mile long and it took forever to get into the club, then Scott and I just lost track of time.”

Her father cautiously opened the door, stepping inside the room and slouching back against the doorframe.

He was dressed in an old grey long-sleeved shirt, the cotton worn down and stretched to the point it dwarfed his muscular body. His thin light-brown hair was pulled back from his face, revealing the greying patches that matched the fine hairs of his scruffy beard. His pale azure eyes looked at her with a pained expression that she knew all too well; the one that meant he was about to give her news she didn’t want to hear.

“Allison,” he said quietly. “I need to talk to you about something. I was going to tell you earlier but you left with Scott before I got the chance.”

He hesitated for a moment, his eyes darting to the corner of her room before looking back at her. She turned following his gaze to the stack of brown packing boxes by her wardrobe: they were full of her things and taped shut. Scrawls of black marker in her dad’s handwriting that labelled them as ‘Allison’s Clothes’, ‘Fragile’, ‘Allison’s Books’ and other things.

“You packed my stuff?” Allison rasped, her voice scratching at her dry throat as a wave of shock and anger began to fill her veins. She frantically shook her head, turning to glare at her dad. “No. No, I am not moving again.”

“I’m sorry, Allison,” her father said softly, his hard gaze fracturing as he looked at her. “I know you just finished unpacking and you were looking forward to school starting back in a couple of weeks, but we don’t have any other choice.”

“I’m seventeen, dad,” Allison muttered, fighting back the tears that blurred her vision, leaving the world around her as nothing more than streaks of light and colour. “Don’t I get a say in this?”

“Normally, I would say yes, but this is for your safety, Allison,” Chris replied. “I have to do what’s right.”

“Is this because I was half an hour late getting home after going out with a guy you know and trust?” Allison wheezed, her voice breaking under the strain.

“No, it’s not that,” Chris muttered, shaking his head and looking down at his arms folded across his chest.

“You do realise you’re doing more damage to me by uprooting me and moving me about every other month than anything else could possibly do, right?” Allison argued. She looked at her dad’s face, the pale depths of his eyes full of pain and fear.

Her heart lurched; if there was one word that would describe her father it was either ‘fearless’ or ‘composed’, so to see him like this made her uneasy.

“What are you so afraid of?” Allison asked.

“It’s too complicated to explain,” Chris replied calmly. “Just, please, trust me.”

“It’s getting harder and harder to trust you when you keep treating me like a child, Christopher,” Allison growled.

“Don’t do that,” Chris scolded, narrowing his bright blue eyes on his daughter. “I am trying to do the best I can. I’m trying to do what’s best for you. And if you keep acting like a child, then I’ll treat you like one. Right now, I need you to trust me. We’re moving out of town for a few weeks, then we’ll find a place of our own.”

“I like it here. I don’t want to leave,” Allison growled.

She turned her back to her dad and grabbed her bag. She stuffed Scott’s hoodie inside before grabbing her leather jacket and her phone. She slung the bag over her shoulder and shoved past her dad, storming down the hallway to the front door. She grabbed her keys and pulled the door open, slamming it behind her as she ran out into the hallway.

She ignored her father as he called after her.

She unlocked her phone and called Scott.

He answered on the second ring. “Hey, what’s up?”

“You know how you said you had a couch free whenever I need to crash?” Allison started. “Is the offer still open?”

“Always,” Scott replied. “I’ll wait for you on the corner of Station Street.”

“Thank you,” Allison whispered before hanging up.

Her phone rang, one of her favourite photos lighting the screen – the one of her dad pressing a kiss to her temple while she squinted and smiled – as her dad’s name was stretched across the top of the screen.

She sighed heavily, her stomach twisting with guilt as she turned her phone onto silent and shoved it into her bag.

Yes, she overreacted, but she needed time to process this.

She shrugged her leather jacket on, pulling it tight around her slender body as she walked on through the quiet night, keeping her eyes focused on the rough concrete of the pavement beneath her feet. The ridges were filled with shadows cast by the streetlamps, strobing in her tired eyes as she forced her body to keep going.

As promised, Scott was waiting for her at the corner of the next street. He slung an arm around her shoulders and held her close as they walked on through the night to his place.

“He wants to move again,” Allison muttered after a while.

“Again?” Scott asked, shocked. “Why?”

“He says it’s for my safety, but he won’t tell me what has him so…”

“Nettled?” Scott offered.

“Scared,” Allison corrected.

“Your dad? Scared?” Scott repeated, stunned. “I have never seen your dad scared.”

“Neither have I. And that’s what has me freaked out. He’s packed all of my stuff into boxes and he’s ready to leave in the morning. I just… I just need somewhere to go where it’s quiet and I can breathe.”

“You’re always welcome at my place,” Scott whispered, pressing a kiss to Allison’s temple as they walked on.

In her bag, her phone buzzed.

She pulled it out, instantly recognising the photo and shoved it back in her bad; she’d answer him in the morning.

As the quiet settled over them, Allison’s mind began to wander and her scattered thoughts were clouded with a mess of questions about what had really happened at the club, why she could see things that others couldn’t and what it was that had her father so scared.


	2. Isaac

Allison laid awake, nestled in the warn sheets of Scott’s bed. After half an hour of arguing, she had finally given in and agreed to take the bed while Scott slept on the couch.

Allison rolled over, restless. She kicked her feet out from under the blankets and stood up, walking over to the small window seat in Scott’s bedroom. She picked up the thick woollen jumper she had left here weeks ago and pulled it around her shoulders as she sat down in the seat and stared out through the misted window at the clusters of starts that broke through the clouds.

The hairs on the back of her neck rose and her heart beat against her chest as she felt overwhelmed by the paranoid sensation that she was being watched.

She slowly turned her head and looked down at the street where a young man stood beneath the light. His sandy-blonde curls were tossed about and his bright sapphire eyes met hers. His hands were buried in his pockets as he casually stood beneath the flickering lamp light. He was dressed in different clothes now, his torn shirt exchanged for a navy blue Henley and the blaze of orange and blue had been cleaned off of his face, revealing his pale skin and soft features.

The thin sheet of drizzling rain seemed not to touch him as he stood there and watched her.

Allison stepped back from the window, pulling on her shoes and grabbing her phone and keys before scurrying out of her room. She crept past Scott in the lounge room and out the front door.

She pulled her jacket tight around herself as she stormed over to the side walk and hissed, “What do you want?”

The blonde – Isaac – seemed stunned by her attitude, taking a step back and raising his hands defensively. “I just came to see if you were okay.”

“Well, I’m not,” Allison snapped. “And you being here is just adding to my problems.”

Isaac looked at her apologetically.

“If you’re worried about me telling someone about you, then you don’t have anything to worry about,” Allison assured him. “I’m not going to go telling people I see things that other people don’t. Right now, my problem is that my dad is making me move again.”

“You’re clearly upset,” Isaac pointed out before swallowing hard and adding, “I’m sorry.”

Allison didn’t reply.

After a moment, Isaac asked, “What’s your name?”

“Allison,” she replied.

He raised his eyebrow, probing further for an answer.

“Argent,” she answered. “Allison Argent.”

“Allison, derivative of Alice which means ‘of royalty’, and Argent, the French word for silver,” Isaac mused. “It is a name given to a hunter, reminiscent of the silver bullet of folk lore; the one that kills the werewolves and monsters. I’m Isaac Lahey. Isaac being the son of Abraham, the sacrificial lamb, and Lahey being the Gaelic word for ‘heroic’.”

“Do you have a point?” Allison growled.

“You seem as mundane as any other mundane,” Isaac muttered, eyeing her suspiciously.

“Any other what?” Allison asked.

“Someone of the human world,” Isaac explained. “But you’re more than that. Mundanes shouldn’t be able to see us, but you can. Let me see your right hand.”

“If I show you my hand, will you leave me alone?” Allison asked.

Isaac nodded.

Allison sighed, rolling up her sleeve and showing Isaac her right arm, turning it over to show him there was nothing there.

Isaac took her hand in his own, his grip gentle and his fingers brushing against her skin as he peered at it. After a moment, he asked, “Are you left handed?”

“No,” Allison replied. “Why?”

Isaac let go of her hand but Allison held it before her for a moment.

“Most Shadowhunters get marked on their dominant hand when they’re still young,” Isaac explained. “It’s a permanent rune that lends an extra skill with weapons. It’s not always visible, usually it’s seen as a small scar, but if you let your mind relax you’ll see it.”

Isaac held out his right hand.

Allison hesitated for a moment, pulling down her sleeve and folding her arms over her chest. She was ready to turn around and walk back into the apartment but something in the back of her mind nagged at her; she knew that if she left now she would never be satisfied without answers.

She looked down at the back of his hand, letting her mind relax as dark swirls of ink began to rise to the surface of his skin. It swirled into the shape of an eye that sat in the curved flesh on the back of his hand between his thumb and his index finger, the line which formed the iris curling into a spiral.

“What kind of tattoo is that?” she whispered, frowning in confusion. “One that can come and go?”

Isaac smiled smugly and rejoiced, “I thought you could do it. And it’s not a tattoo, it’s a Mark; a rune that’s burnt into our skin.”

Allison eyes him suspiciously. “And they make you better with weapons?”

“Different Marks do different things,” Isaac explained. “Some are permanent but the majority vanish when they’ve been used. Deaton can explain it all when we get to the Institute.”

“No way,” Allison said, backing up from Isaac. “You said you’d leave me alone.”

“I lied.”

They were interrupted by the sound of Allison’s phone buzzing in her jacket pocket.

“You can answer that if you need to, I’ll wait,” Isaac said, gesturing to her pocket.

Allison pulled out her phone, the photo of her and her dad lighting the screen. Her brow furrowed as she eyed her phone; her father wouldn’t be calling this late unless it was really important.

She sighed, her gut twisting with guilt as she answered the call and lifted the phone to her ear. “Hey, dad, I’m sorry. I’m on my way home now.”

“No!” Her father’s voice was scraped raw with terror. “Don’t come home. Do you understand me, Allison? Don’t you dare come home. Go to Scott’s house and stay there until I can-“

A thundering crash in the background interrupted him, the sound followed by shouting, shattering glass, splintering wood and something heavy hitting the floor.

“Dad?” Allison yelped. “Dad, are you okay?”

“Promise me you won’t come home, Allison. Go to Scott’s and tell him that he’s found me.”

“Who’s found you?” Allison asked.

“Scott will know,” Chris muttered.

There was another loud crash followed by the unhuman sound of gargling and hissing.

All fear and panic drained from her father’s voice as his usual composure returned, his voice calm and steady as he said, “Allison, remember: I love you.”

The call went dead.

“Dad!” Allison cried.

She pulled the phone away from her ear, looking at the screen that said ‘CALL ENDED’.

“Allison,” Isaac called, taking a cautious step forward. “What’s going on?”

She ignored him, frantically dialling the home phone. There was no answer; it rang until it reached voicemail.

“Damn it!” she cried, shoving her phone in her pocket and looking back at the house then down the street.

“Allison,” Isaac said softly, taking another step forward. “I can help you, just tell me what happened.”

“There’s no time,” she shouted at him as she picked up her heels and ran down the street.

The sheet of rain lashed at her face as she sprinted through the night. Her jacket billowed about her body, the mess of her raven black curls bouncing off her shoulders as she ran. Strands of hair were plastered to her face. Trails of rain mingles with the beads of sweat and falling tears of fear.

Her chest ached breathlessly, her lips quivering as the sweet relief of cool air danced before her. She swallowed hard, her throat dry and her breath escaping her. Her muscles burnt, searing agony flooding her veins as she forced herself to keep running.

She rounded the corner, not caring to look down the road as she raced down the streets. She ran up to the apartment building.

The front door was unlocked and off the latch.

She burst into the hallway, sprinting upstairs.

She paused, the darkness falling on her with a suffocating weight. She felt the wave of nausea wash over her as the bitter metallic stench of blood reached her nose and bile rose into her throat.

“Dad,” she croaked, the word falling from her lips weakly as she stumbled up the stairs to their apartment.

The door was open, the white paint chipped and torn away to expose the pail grainy flesh.

She stumbled past it, her legs trembling beneath her as she stepped into the hallway. The door to her dad’s office had been torn off the hinges, the cupboards inside thrown open and emptied, the thick oak desk overturned, and photos, paper and books cast about as if someone had been searching for something. She ran down the hallway to her father’s bedroom, the farthest door from the front of the apartment.

She shoved the door open and found the room in chaos. The carboard boxes that her father had so carefully packed, taped shut and labelled were torn open, their contents scattered across the room. Strips of newspaper and tape were flung about, his clothes tossed aside or torn to shreds, the glass bottles of cologne and frail jars of precious keepsakes were shattered.

Something across the room caught Allison’s eye, making her heart lurch into her chest and a sob fall from her lips: her mother’s jewellery box.

She stumbled over to it, her legs falling beneath her as she tried to pick her way through the debris that covered her father’s bedroom floor. She fell to her knees before the weather-worn wooden box, carefully picking it up in her hands.

The lit had come of its dainty gold hinges and the small mirror screwed to the inside had been shattered.

Allison looked at her distorted reflection, her face fractured and the image unnerving.

Her hand trembled as she reached inside the box and picked up the few pieces of jewellery that had stayed in the felt boxes; the few pieces of her jewellery that Chris could never bring himself to throw away nor Allison to take as heirlooms or tokens of remembrance.

One was a silver necklace that her mother had told her was the crest of their family. On it, a wolf stood rampant and fearsome. It had suited her mother; she was confident and fearless, and she would protect Allison like a wolf mother would protect her pups. And when Allison asked her about it, her mother told her wonderful stories about their family, the crest and how Allison would inherit the necklace when she turned sixteen, but her mother died a week before she turned thirteen and after that Allison wanted nothing to do with then necklace.

The other pieces of jewellery included a pair of silver earrings made to look like roses – the first piece of jewellery Chris had ever bought her – and her mother’s wedding ring.

She pocketed the earrings and unlatched the clasp of the necklace, sliding the wedding ring onto the chain before fastening it around her neck.

She rose to her feet, making her way down the hallway, more cautious and quiet now.

Her gut twisted with fear.

Something was off. Someone else was here.

She made her way through the open doorway that led into the kitchen. The marble countertop had been broken, the plates and mugs all shattered and discarded. The blades of the kitchen knives had been shattered, gleaming shards of silvery metal glittering in the moonlight.

Allison slowly turned, making her way past the overturned dining table and shattered wooden chairs and over to the couches. The cushions and decorative pillows were torn apart, foam stuffing and feathers scattered about the space. The glass surface of the coffee table had been shattered. The television had been torn from the wall. The boxes full of photographs and memorabilia had been torn apart and their contents broken beyond repair.

She turned slowly, her eyes drawn to the shifting shadows by an arm chair. They began to mould into a shape, unhuman and strange.

Allison cringed, fear seizing her as she froze in place. Her stomach churned and knotted as she swallowed hard.

Finally, the creature stepped into the light. It looked something like a giant metallic scorpion that oozed black ink from between the plates of its body, the barbed tail waving about like a predator surveying its surroundings for prey and its multiple branching legs pushing it up off the hardwood floors as it readied itself to lunge forward.

Gleaming onyx-black eyes observed her, the creature tilting its head in thought. It stopped, holding still for a moment.

Allison didn’t look away, her eyes wide as she stared at the horrific creature.

It leapt forward.

A scream tore itself from Allison’s chest as she ducked. The creature narrowly missed her, striking the wall behind her as she rolled forward and began to scramble away from it. She turned around, keeping her eyes on the creature as it gripped the wall and turned around.

It began to gargle and hiss, strange sounds that seemed to make words.

“ _Kill. I want to kill._ ”

Allison held her breath.

“ _Gerard said nothing about a girl_ ,” the creature mused, its head tilting sideways like a dog listening to a strange noise. “ _If he doesn’t need the girl then I can eat the girl_.”

It began to crawl back down the wall, hissing, “ _Gerard will never know. And what he doesn’t know, won’t make him angry._ ”

Allison wheeled backwards, her hand scrambling at stuffing and feathers until they hit something solid. She grabbed it, tightening her grip around it as the creature leapt from the war and charged.

She let out another cry as she swung her arm around.

She caught a glimpse of a gleaming blade, but only for a second as it tore into the oozing flesh between the plates of the creature’s neck.

Its mouth flared out, lashing at her one last time.

She screamed as its teeth tore through the skin of her shoulder, filling her blood with searing agony.

The creature’s weight fell against her, her hand dropped away.

Her vision began to blur and darken, but something came into focus: the face of a young man with bright blue eyes and ruffled golden curls.

Isaac.

He was talking softly to her, but she’ didn’t hear much over the screaming in her ears.

Her chest ached breathlessly and her body began to feel numb, her head lulled to the side as something rolled out from between her fingers.

She caught a glimpse at what she had been holding: a knife of some sort, with an ornate handle and a glowing crystal-like blade.

Isaac picked it up, sliding it into his pocket before he lifted her into his arms and carried her out into the street.

She stared up at the stars above, watching as the dark sky rippled like the surface of a scintillating lake that was decorated by glittering crystals. They strobed in her eyes, spinning into a kaleidoscope as her eyes fell shut and Isaac’s soft voice finally reached her ears, “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

She let a heavy sigh fall past her lips as her body seemed to fall into an abyss, weightlessly descending through the earth and into the inescapable darkness that was waiting for her.


	3. The Institute

The dreams were like a sweeping current, boring her along with no resistance. She was lead on effortlessly, drifting through dreams; images that crashed over her like waves.

She saw her father laid back against crisp white sheets, his eyes shut and darkened like bruises, his skin pale and lifeless.

She saw Scott, dressed in nothing more than jeans standing atop a pile of bones with blood dripping from his hands. The scarlet drops gathered on his elongated claw-like nails before falling like rubies that shattered over the chalky remains at his feet.

She saw Isaac, his arms thrown outward and his head tipped upwards as he screamed to the heavens above. Feathery wings burst from his back, the angelic white plumage pristine and untainted.

She saw Derek on his knees and crying in pain as blood red runes were burnt into the palms of his hands. The cindering flesh glowed like ambers before dimming to charred, black burns and Allison seemed to recognise them; they read ‘Purity’ and ‘Obedience’.

She saw angels fall from the sky like falling stars, their wings ignited in a blaze of blue and orange that streaked the sky in a magnificent eruption of colour.

She saw herself, her own reflection in the mirror. Her lips were chapped, cracked and bleeding. Vines like dead roses coiled up her arms, the thorns piercing her pale flesh. A matching circlet of thorns was coiled around her head, tousling the raven-black stands of her hair. She was dressing in a black cocktail dress, the lace that decorated the bust torn and the rippling ink-black skirt darkened and stained with blood.

She looked up, meeting her own gaze.

Her eyes were hollow, black.

She swallowed hard.

The reflection leapt forward, grabbing her by the throat and hoisting her off her feet.

She wheezed as she choked on her own breath, staring down at herself in horror.

The reflections lips seemed to move around silent words.

It felt as if the reflections hand tore through her flesh, her grip on her throat tightening and crushing her.

She wanted to scream but nothing came out.

There was a loud snap and Allison felt the air leave her body.

Everything faded to black.

 

 

Allison bolted upright, a silenced cry tearing at her throat as she wheezed and her stomach convulsed with the strain.

“Easy, easy,” a soft voice encouraged.

Gentle hands patted her back comfortingly before guiding her back against the pile of pillows behind her.

Allison steadied her breathing and felt her body fall still. Her limbs felt heavy, lethargic and strained.

“Take it easy,” the soft voice whispered. “You’ve been out cold for three days, your body isn’t ready to run a mile.”

Allison felt something settle in her hands, a small teacup full of warm liquid. She looked down at it, frowning in confusion before looking up at the young girl who had given it to her.

She had bright jade eyes that were full of concern. Her thick copper-coloured hair was pulled back into a messy bun as she carefully set down the pot of tea on the bedside table.

“Drink,” Lydia encouraged. “Deaton – our tutor – made it especially for you. He says it’ll make you feel better.”

Allison nodded, lifting the cup to her lips and sipping at the warm tea. It was a delicious herbal mix with a sweet berry taste to it. Deaton had been right; it made her feel better: her empty stomach stopped churning, her head stopped spinning and her body began to settle back into reality.

“What happened?” Allison asked, her voice still rough.

“You were bitten by a ravener,” Lydia explained, pausing for a second before correcting herself. “A kind of demon. Isaac found you and brought you here.”

Allison looked down at her hands, freezing as she stared at the thick black lines that covered her wrists. Her voice cracked as she gasped, “What are these?”

Lydia tilted her head to look at what had caught Allison’s attention: two black runes that were drawn onto the insides of her wrists.

“Marks,” Lydia replied, pointing at each of them as she said, “That one’s for healing and that one’s for invisibility. One to keep you alive long enough for Isaac to get you here and the other to actually get you here.”

Allison look shocked, her lips quivering around silent words that wouldn’t rise from her throat.

“It’s okay,” Lydia assured her. “They’re only temporary. They’ll fade in a few hours, a day at most, and you’ll only ever see them if you use them.”

Allison sighed, setting down the tea cup and turning her hands over so she didn’t have to look at them.

Lydia rose to her feet, the billowing fabric of her skirt swirling about as she turned to face Allison and said, “I’m Lydia, Lydia Martin.”

“We’ve met,” Allison muttered. “I’m Allison.”

“Isaac says you killed a ravener demon all on your own,” Lydia said, unable to hide how impressed she was.

“I… I don’t know,” Allison muttered. “I guess… It all happened so fast.”

A thought struck her.

“My dad,” Allison gasped. “Have you heard anything about my dad?”

“I haven’t,” Lydia answered. “But maybe Deaton has. If you want, I can take you to see him.”

“Yes please.”

Lydia nodded. “The bathroom’s through there. You’re about the same size as Cora and I, but we thought you might be more comfortable in Cora’s clothes. There’s towels and everything if you want to freshen up and I’ll come back for you in a little while.”

“What happened to my clothes?” Allison asked.

“Demon venom,” Lydia muttered, screwing up her face in disgust. “We had to burn them.”

Allison gasped.

Lydia reached into her pocket and pulled out a phone and something else.

“I did manage to grab these before Isaac threw everything in the furnace,” Lydia said, setting the phone down on the bedside table before handing Allison everything else: the pendant with the wedding ring on the chain and the pair of silver rosebud earrings. “They seemed pretty important to you so I tried to save them. I’ve cleaned them thoroughly so they’re free of any demon venom and you can have them back.”

“Thank you,” Allison said with a sigh, tears of relief stinging her eyes.

“You’ll feel better after a shower,” Lydia whispered as she turned and left.

Allison waited until she shut the door before pushing back the blankets and rising to her feet. Her legs wavered and ached under the strain. It took her a moment to get her balance, but she soon steadied herself enough to make her way over to the bathroom.

She stripped out of the threadbare tee-shirt that swamped her – obviously one of Isaac’s or Derek’s – and turned the shower on. The pipes rattled and groaned as the water gushed out of the showerhead.

Plumes of steam rolled through the air as Allison carefully stepped into the shower.

The water was warm and soothing as it streamed across her body, turning her pale skin pink as the droplets of water drummed against her flesh.

Allison drew in deep breaths, calming herself as she tried to make sense of everything that has happened.

After a while, she finished bathing, shut of the shower, dried herself and got dressed in the clothes that Cora had so generously loaned her. The jeans were a little tight and the cuffs had to be rolled up slightly. The shirt was slightly smaller too, hugging her curves more than she would have liked.

She put her mother’s earrings on and pulled the chain of the silver pendant over her head before stepping back into the room. She found her shoes at the foot of the bed with her keys tied into the laces. Pocketing her keys, she pulled her shoes on and stepped out into the hallway.

It was the kind of hallway you’d see in nightmares: the tunnelling stretch of marble floors that stretch into nothingness. The Victorian wallpaper was faded, the silver and gold details of the patterning gleaming against the dull shades of burgundy, forest green and royal blue. One side of the corridor was lined with large oak doors, each carved and marked with runes that Allison recognised the way you recognise a stranger’s face in the crowd, as if you’ve seen it before but don’t know when or where. The other side of the hall was lined with large glass windows, the radiant glow of the morning light bleeding through the glass and scattering the bar-like shadows of the windows across the floors and the walls.

From somewhere in the distance, she could hear music, the quiet tinkling of a melody played across a piano. It was played with skill but it was not a tune Allison could recognise.

Her shoes scuffed against the marble tiles as she made her way down the hallway to where a large oak door sat open on its ornate gold hinges.

She peered into the room, catching sight of the grand piano that sat in the far corner. There was a circle of chairs set out and other instruments – harps, cellos, violins, and various brass and percussion instruments – sat covered in the corners.

Isaac sat at the grand piano, his slender fingers moving rapidly across the keys.

He was barefoot, dressing in black jeans and a dark grey tee-shirt, his sandy blonde curls ruffled about his head as if he had just woken up.

Allison watched, mesmerised, as his fingers danced across the keys, so sure, nimble and precise. She remembered how skilled those fingers had been when wielding his weapons and how tender they had been when he caressed her hands to check for runes, and she could swear she remembered how his hands felt as he applied the runes to her wrists, the faint trace of his fingers running across her skin.

She must have made a sound because Isaac stopped, spinning around in his chair and looking at the shadowy doorway.

“Derek?” he called. “Is that you?”

“It’s not Derek,” Allison replied, stepping into the light.

Isaac’s face lit up with a bright smile as he said, “Our very own Sleeping Beauty. Who kissed you awake?”

“I woke up on my own,” Allison replied.

“Was there anyone with you?” Isaac asked.

“Lydia,” Allison answered.

His smirk grew wider as he said, “Are you sure no-one kissed you awake?”

Allison narrowed her glare on him.

Isaac rose from the seat, frowning slightly as he looked her up and down. “Did Cora lend you those or Lydia?”

“Cora,” Allison replied.

Isaac nodded thoughtfully.

“You would have been better off in Lydia’s clothes,” he muttered.

“I’m not as confident in my body as she is,” Allison admitted, thinking back to what she had seen Lydia wearing the two times they’ve met: short skirts and revealing shirts. She quickly changed the topic, “She was going to take me to see Deaton but she kind of left and didn’t come back.”

“I’ll take you,” Isaac offered, crossing the music room and walking into the hallway. His bare feet pattered against the smooth marble as he led her down the tunnelling corridor.

Statues and portraits of angels and saints covered the walls and archways. The shadows of the hallway were lit by several ornate torches, the iron and brass holders fastened into the shape of blossoming roses. Allison absentmindedly ran her finger over her silver rosebud earrings, feeling a strange sense of resemblance and recognition, as if the earrings meant more than the sentimentality her father claimed.

A few of the doors were propped open to reveal bedrooms: large and well decorated with queen beds, plush blankets, silk sheets, wardrobes, dressers and framed paintings and decorations.

“Why does this place have so many bedrooms?” she mused out lout.

“This is the residential wing,” Isaac answered. “The Institute was made as a safe haven, lodgings for any Shadowhunter who requests it. We can house up to a hundred people at once, but people come and go; nobody stays for long. Except for us.”

“Us?” Allison muttered.

“Derek, Cora, Lydia, Deaton and myself,” Isaac replied. “We’re the only ones who live here. Occasionally, Cora and Derek’s mother will visit, or their sister, or their uncle.” The last one made his face twist into an expression of disgust.

“Where are they?” Allison asked.

“Shadowhunter home country: Idris.”

“I’ve never heard of that place before,” Allison admitted.

“You wouldn’t have,” Isaac replied. “It’s not on any maps and it’s specifically hidden from mundanes.”

He paused for a moment, rounding a corner and walking down another long corridor before continuing, “Usually Laura – their sister – stays longer, but her mother wanted her to accompany her this time. It’s hard to believe they’re related; Laura’s so nice, whereas Cora’s so snappy and Derek’s so…well, _Derek_.”

“What about their dad?” Allison asked.

“He’s dead,” Isaac said. “He was killed about sixteen years ago in the war – before Cora was born.”

“What war?” Allison said, frowning in confusion.

“Our war,” Isaac replied, turning to look at Allison. “The war between the Circle and the Downworlders.”

“Downworlders?”

“The corrupted ones: vampires, werewolves, warlocks, demons,” Isaac said bluntly.

“They’re all folk lore and fairy tales,” Allison objected.

“I know this is hard to take in, but I’ll try and make it easy for you: all those stories – the folk lores, fairy tales and legends – are true.”

They stopped before tow large oak doors. Above the doorway was a bronze plate that read: LIBRARY.

Isaac guided her towards the door. He pushed open the large wooden panels and ushered her inside.

Allison stepped inside the door, falling to an immediate stop as she caught a glimpse of the large room. Her eyes flew open wide, her gaze falling on the large shelves full of old hardcover books, leather bound journals and other books that looked like antiques, all bound in magnificent colours of scarlet, burgundy, deep green, gold, and grey. The spines of the books were decorated by gold or silver lettering that read the titles, adorned with small metal studs and a few were even fastened with small hinges that looked to be made of brass or silver.

The shelves covered all the walls, large ladders on casters were scattered about the room where the occupants had last left them. Higher up, there was a small platform that stretched around the room, a mezzanine that allowed them to access another storey of bookshelves that the ladders couldn't reach. High above everything was a dome-like sky light, the slightly misted glass allowing the golden light of day to fall into the large library.

On the far side of the room was a small fireplace with a marble mantelpiece. Atop the mantelpiece sat a few of the sturdier-looking books, some candles and a vase of flowers - white, red and salmon-pink roses that were pulled into a bouquet and filled out with lilies of the valley. Before the fireplace sat two arm chairs and a larger couch, each made of beige fabric that were covered in a faded floral pattern.

In the centre of the large room sat a large oak table, held up by finely carved wooden legs that were decorated with seams of silver.

Behind the table stood a middle-aged man with kind, round features, his dark skin glowing in the golden daylight. His chin was covered in neatly groomed facial hair: a light moustache and a goatee. His warm chocolate eyes were drawn away from the book that was laid out before him on the table and looked at Allison with unmistakable sympathy and compassion.

"Another book lover, I see," the man said warmly. He must have seen the confusion on Allison's face because he smiled and added, "Not many people come into the room and look at me with that expression. You must be Allison."

She nodded shyly.

"I'm Deaton," he introduced himself, stepping around the table and over to her side. He extended his hand and she shook it. "So you're the infamous mundane who killed a ravener with her bare hands."

"It wasn't with my bare hands," Allison muttered. "It was..." Her voice trailed off. What had she killed that thing with? It had looked like some kind of knife, but she had never seen anything like it before? Or maybe she had.

She remembered the strange carvings of the ornate handle and the crystal-like blade. She had seen it before; it was like the one Isaac had used to kill the demon at the nightclub. But how had it got to her house?

Allison heard someone scoff in the corner of the room.

She turned, her eyes falling on the figure that rose from the arm chair, the shadow she hadn't saw before.

His dark grey shirt rippled over his muscles. The open V-neck collar of his black Henley dipped down over his collarbone to reveal the patch of toned beige skin. The light of day revealed Marks that Allison hadn’t seen in the nightclub: a few smaller runes on his arms and chest and the thick black lines of a rune that covered his neck, running from his jaw to his collarbone. He was a young man, roughly eighteen years old, but stern and handsome. His hair was dark and thick, cropped short at the base of his skull and across his strong jaw, the soft whiskers casting a shadow across his jaw and framing his sharp cheekbones. His wide-set eyes were pale beneath his dark brows, narrowed on him as the colour of his irises shifted in the light; from hazel to green, to a shade of light blue – clear, bright and focused.

Derek.

"Are you suggesting she didn't kill that demon?" Deaton asked, looking at Derek with a furrowed brow.

"Of course she didn't," Derek said, his voice low and steady. "Look at her. She's a mundane, and a kid."

"I'm seventeen," Allison objected as if it made a difference to the argument.

"That's the same age as Lydia," Deaton pointed out. "Would you call her a child?"

"I dare you to," Isaac chimed in with a devilish smirk at the thought of Derek angering Lydia.

"Lydia hails from Shadowhunters," Derek argued. "She is trained and lethal. This girl hails from Beacon Hills."

"France," Allison corrected. "And what difference does it make who I am or where I came from? That demon attacked me in my house. I don't care if my killing it make you like me or not, that fact of the matter is it tried to kill me, I stabbed it and it's dead. So, sorry if I'm not some spoiled little brat like all of you."

A burning rage brewed behind Derek's pale eyes, his jaw locked tight as he growled, "A what?"

Isaac burst out laughing.

"You do realise she's insulting you too, right?" Derek said, looking over Allison at Isaac.

"Yeah," the boy muttered between bursts of laughter and heaved in breaths. "But she took you down a peg and that'll do you good. Think of it as endurance training."

"We may be _parabatai_ but your flippancy is wearing on my patience," Derek said in a low, hushed voice.

"And your obstinacy is wearing on mine."

"Wow, four syllables," another voice - Lydia - chimed in as she stepped into the room. “Careful, Isaac, you don’t want to overdo yourself.”

"Hello, Lydia," Derek greeted. "Make anyone cry today?"

"Not yet," Lydia said with an almost pained expression, as if she had failed at something. It quickly faded as a smirk lit up her face and she added, "But it's only half past two."

"Derek," Isaac interrupted. "The fact of the matter is that when I found her she was lying on the floor in a pool of blood with a dying demon on top of her and seraph blade in her hand. I watched the demon vanish"

"Are you suggesting that _she_ used a seraph blade?" Derek asked, pointing an accusing finger at Allison. "She couldn't have; she's a mundane."

"No, she's not," Isaac argued. "If she were a mundane she wouldn't have seen us in the nightclub when we took down that wendigo."

"So she has Downworlder blood in her then," Derek offered.

"Nah," Isaac muttered, stepping forward and picking up Allison's hands. She turned them over and showed Derek the two dark runes that marked the inside of her wrists. "If she were a mundane or Downworlder, these would have killed her."

"They would have _what_?" Allison gasped.

"Don't worry," Isaac whispered, turning his bright sapphire eyes on her. "I was sure you were a 'hunter."

"Isaac," Deaton growled. "There are Laws against marking mundanes. You of all people should know better. You could have turned her into a Forsaken."

"But they didn't, because she's not a mundane."

"That's beside the point, Isaac," Deaton said firmly.

"If I hadn't she would have died!"

Everyone fell silent, their eyes falling on Isaac. After a moment, he drew in a deep breath, calmed himself and turned his attention back to Derek.

"Okay, Derek, I'll humour you," he said. "If Allison didn't kill the ravener, then who did?"

"Raveners are stupid creatures, maybe it stung itself and died," Derek offered. "Either way, it isn't right for her to be here. The Law states that we are to give shelter to Shadowhunters, not Downworlders, not mundanes."

"That's not entirely true," Deaton spoke up. "The Law does state that we are allowed to give shelter to mundanes in certain circumstances."

He stepped forward, physically standing between Isaac and Derek in an attempt to break the tension or hoping to intervene if things got out of hand.

"A ravener attacked Allison's father, she would have been next," Deaton continued. "So, for her safety, she has the right to seek sanctuary here."

"Raveners are search-and-destroy monsters," Derek said. "They act under the orders of warlocks or demon lords. Now, what interest would a warlock or demon lord want with an ordinary mundane."

Derek's pale eyes fell on Allison, an expression of scepticism and disdain twisting his features. He turned and looked at the others, cocking his eyebrows as if to prompt a reply.

"Any thoughts?"

"It must have been a mistake," Allison rasped.

"Demons don't make those kind of mistakes," Derek countered. "If they were after your father, there must have been a reason."

Deaton held up his hand and silenced Derek, turning to look at Allison. His voice was soft as he said, "A normal human cannot summon a demon without risk. If it was a human who sent that ravener after your father, then they must have had help from a warlock."

"My father doesn't know any warlocks. He's adverse to anything supernatural, he even hates Disney movies," Allison argued. A thought struck her and her voice fell short for a second. She swallowed hard and added, "Miss Morrell. She's a fortune teller, a witch or something, that lives downstairs. Maybe the demons were after her and attacked my father and me by mistake?"

Deaton's face twisted with shock. "A witch?"

"I don't know," Allison admitted. "She might be. She's nice but she reads fortunes and stuff like that."

"She wouldn't have any squall with a warlock unless they sold her a nonfunctional crystal ball," Isaac jested.

"And we're back to where we began," Deaton said. "We have many questions and no answers. I think it's about time we notify the Clave."

"No!" Isaac squawked. "You can't!"

"It doesn't make sense to keep Allison's presence here a secret now that she's is conscious; she is the first mundane to pass through the doors of the Institute in over a hundred years. You know the rules pertaining to mundane knowledge of Shadowhunters, Isaac. The Clave must be informed."

"But she's not a mundane!" Isaac argued. "She saw the wendigo, she saw through our glamour, she saw the ravener and heard it talk, and the runes worked. She has 'hunter blood in her. She's one of us."

"No, I'm not," Allison muttered.

"You must be," Isaac insisted. "Your father, he must have been a Shadowhunter."

"No," Allison argued. "He's not."

"Your mother then."

"My mum’s not a Shadowhunter either."

"Where is she?" Isaac asked. "We'll go and ask her."

"She's dead," Allison snapped. Tears prickled her eyes as her fingers brushed the silver pendant that tapped against her collarbone. "She killed herself three years ago."

Isaac fell silent, bowing his head respectfully as he whispered, "I'm sorry."

After a moment, Deaton looked at her sympathetically and said, "We all have our secrets. Whatever the truth is, you are safe here and we are here to help."

Allison nodded.

A thought struck her and she remembered what her father had told her on the phone.

"Scott," she gasped. "I need to call my friend, Scott."

Deaton nodded.

"There's a phone on the table by the window," he said, pointing to the small phone on the table by the end of the bookshelves.

Allison nodded and hurried forward. She picked up the phone and quickly dialled the number she had memorised a while ago.

Scott answered on the third ring, "Hello?"

"Scott!" Allison gasped, a wave of relief rolling over her. Her legs began to tremble beneath her. She leant against the small table for support. "It's Allison."

"Allison." She could hear the relief in her voice, along with something else - a kind of tension - that she couldn't identify. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she said. "I'm sorry, I couldn't call earlier. I kind of stepped outside for a breath of fresh air when my dad called me. Scott, he..."

"I know," Scott said sympathetically. "The police were here."

"You haven't heard from my dad?" Allison asked, hopeful.

"No," Scott replied.

Allison's heart sank, her shoulders dropping as tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision with streaks of colour and light.

"What did the police say?" she asked.

"They said she was missing," Scott told her. "Where are you?"

"I'm... I don't know where exactly, but I'm with some people who are keeping me safe. My money's gone, but if you have some cash, I can catch a taxi back to your place--”

"No," Scott interrupted.

Allison jumped in her skin, shocked by harsh tone in Scott's voice. He never got mad, he never snapped.

"Scott," she rasped.

"You can't come here," Scott insisted.

"Please," she whispered pleadingly. "I don't want to stay here. I don't know these people."

"I can't help you, Allison," Scott said.

Allison felt a lump rise into her throat, a wave of nausea twisting her gut.

"My dad said to tell you: 'he's found me'," Allison said quickly. "What does that mean?"

"I don't know," Scott replied. "Allison, I've got to go. I'll do what I can to find your dad, but I can't help you. I'm sorry."

The call went dead.

Allison stood still, her trembling hand still holding the phone to her ear. Her hand shook as she slowly lowered the phone.

She drew in a deep breath and blinked back her tears, taking a moment to compose herself - a skill she had learnt from her father. She turned to face the others.

Deaton had returned to his book. Lydia had left once she found out where Allison had gone and retrieved the book she was looking for. Isaac leant against the armrest of the chair Derek was seated in.

Isaac's bright blue eyes turned to look at Allison. "Everything okay?"

"Fine," she lied, her voice strained.

Deaton turned to the boys. "I'd like to talk with Allison." He turned and narrowed his gaze on Isaac – who seemed ready to object – before firmly adding, "Alone."

"Fine," Derek said, sliding a ribbon into place and closing the book before rising to his feet. "We'll leave you to it."

"That's hardly fair," Isaac whines as Derek grabbed his arm and dragged him towards the door. "I'm the one who found her, I'm the one who saved her life."

He turned to look at Allison, his eyes almost pleading her as he asked, "You want me to stay, don't you?"

"Not everyone wants you all the times, Isaac," Derek muttered.

"Fine," Isaac said weakly, his shoulders dropping in defeat as he turned to follow Derek. "We'll be in the weapons room."

A second later the door closed behind them with a definitive click, the sound rattling in Allison's chest as she suddenly felt trapped and alone.

Deaton stepped around the table and rested a hand on her shoulder, gently guiding her towards the couch where the boys had been sitting before.

:"Sit down," he said softly.

Allison did as she was told, slowly lowering herself onto the cushions before her legs gave out.

A small droplet of water splashed against the back of her hand, shattering like a diamond as she realised that the numb tear had fallen from her cheek.

Deaton sat down in one of the arm chairs across from her, offering her a handkerchief.

She took it with a hushed thanks and gently patted down her cheeks, trying to blink back the rest of the heavy tears.

After a moment, she found her voice. "What am I supposed to do?"

"You can start by telling me what little you know about what happened," Deaton said, looking at her with kind, dark eyes. "The demon you saw in your apartment, was that the first such creature you've ever seen?"

"I saw one before," Allison admitted. "But, in both cases, I didn't realise what they were. In the nightclub---”

"Right, of course. Was that the first time?"

"Yes," Allison replied, her voice raspy and scratching at her dry throat.

Deaton reached forward and poured a cup of tea, gently pushing it across the small coffee table between them.

She thanked him and picked it up, sipping at the sweet tea.

"Your father, he never mentioned any of this to you?" Deaton asked. "Nothing about another world that you cannot see? Of myths, fairy tales, legends of the fantastic?"

"No," Allison answered. "My father hated all of that stuff."

Deaton ran his hand over his bald head, thinking.

"Couldn't it have been a mistake?" Allison asked.

"If it had been a mistake and you were an ordinary mundane girl, you wouldn't have seen the demon that attacked you or - if you had - your mind would have processed it as something else entirely: a vicious dog or another human being, perhaps. But you could see it, you could hear it."

"Gerard," Allison muttered.

"Pardon?"

"Gerard," Allison repeated. "It said something about Gerard."

"Impossible," Deaton gasped, a cold sweat making his complexion grow pale and his face fill with fear. He noticed Allison's confused gaze and explained. "Gerard is – _was_ – a Shadowhunter."

"Was?"

"He's dead," Deaton said flatly. "He has been dead for seventeen years."

He paused for a moment drawing in a deep breath.

"Seventeen years ago, when the Accords - the peace treaty between ourselves and Downworlders - were first being signed, Gerard sought to build a cult of Shadowhunters who were willing to kill all Downworlders in order to keep the human race safe," Deaton explained. "We - the Nephilim - are the offspring of angels and humans. Legends say that we were created thousands of years ago, when humans were overrun by demon invasions from other worlds. A warlock summoned the Angel Raziel, who mixed some of his own blood with the blood of mortal men in a cup. He gave it to the men to drink, and those who drank he angel's blood became the first Nephilim; the first Shadowhunters, as did their children, and their children's children. The cup thereafter was known as the Mortal Cup. Even if the legend may not be true, the Cup is, and with it you can create more Shadowhunters - an army."

Deaton paused for a moment before continuing, "The Cup is gone. Gerard destroyed it when he died. He set fire to his house and died among the blaze along with his two children and the Cup. He scorched the land black..."

His voice trailed off as he thought.

"Gerard broke the greatest Law of all: he took up arms against his fellow 'hunters and slayed them. He and his group - the Circle - killed dozens of their brethren and thousands of Downworlders. He started a war that lasted two years and killed many of my friends, Robert Hale - Derek's father - included."

"Why would he want to kill other Shadowhunters?" Allison asked.

"He didn't approve of the Accords. He despised Downworlders and felt they should be slaughtered to keep this world pure for human beings. He wanted to eliminate anyone of demonic nature... It was only when the Downworlders saw the Clave turn on Gerard and his Circle in their defence, did they realise that Shadowhunters were not their enemy and they agreed to sign the Accords."

"And now Gerard has my dad," Allison muttered. "What does a guy like that want with my dad?"

"I don't know," Deaton admitted.

"Can I go back home?" Allison asked.

Deaton's face filled with concern. "No, I'm sorry but I must advise against that. It's too dangerous."

"I need clothes," Allison said, gesturing down at what she was wearing. "Cora's don't quite fit and I could never pull off what Lydia wears."

"We can give you money to buy new clothes," Deaton offered.

"Please," Allison pleaded. "I want to see what's left-- I have to see what's left."

Deaton hesitated for a moment before nodding solemnly. "You may go, but only if Isaac agrees to go with you."

Allison nodded.

Deaton rose and returned to his book.

Allison set down her tea cup and stood up, not really sure where to go.

Deaton noticed, scolding himself before saying, "He's in the weapon's room. You follow his hallway down to the end then turn left and it'll be the room at the end of that hallway."

Allison nodded, thanked him and left.

The soles of her shoes pattered against the marble tiles as she hurried down the hallway towards the weapons room.


	4. Forsaken

The weapons room looked like a monotonous vault, with thick grey walls covered in gleaming silver weapons: maces, swords, daggers, spears, sickles, axes, bows, chakhrams, throwing knives, and many more weapons that Allison had never heard of. The pace was divided into several work stations, each equipped for weapons upgrades, storing garrotte wire, chemical weapons, traps and snares, and other things. To one side was a station for armour – stacks of boots, leather leg guards, arm braces, gauntlets and plated gloves – and on the far wall was an open doorway that lead into a training room full of gym equipment and padded mats for sparring practice.

The whole room smelt of leather, sweat, steel and polish.

Derek and Isaac stood at a table in the centre of the room, their heads bowed as they focused their attention focused on the weapons before them: three long slim wands of dull silver, the handles oven in ornate patterns and the tips glowing.

“Hey,” Isaac greeted as she stepped into the room.

Allison’s curiosity won her over. “What are you doing?”

“Putting the last touches on our seraph blades,” Isaac explained. He pointed at each of them and said, “Sanvi, Sansanvi and Semangelaf.”

Allison hid her confusion and nodded as if everything he had said made sense. She drew in a deep breath and said, “Deaton said I could go home.”

Isaac nearly dropped everything he was holding, shocked. “He said what?”

“To look through my father’s things,” Allison added. “I might be able to find some answers, but I’m only allowed to go if you go with me.”

Isaac collected his blades, grabbing a nearby leather jacket and shoving them in the pocket before shrugging it on. He pulled on a pair of boots and looked at Allison with a bright smile, “And down the rabbit hole we go, Alice.”

“Don’t call me that,” Allison muttered, irked by the name.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Derek asked, his clear eyes focused on Isaac.

“Nah,” Isaac replied. “Allison and I can handle this. You’ve got to stay here and make sure Lydia doesn’t kill anyone and Cora doesn’t burn down the Institute.”

Any amusement fell from Derek’s face as he glared at Isaac. But, nonetheless, he nodded and turned his attention back to his weapons.

Isaac set a hand between Allison’s shoulders and guided her out of the weapons room, back down the hallway and to large marble staircase that split the foyer of the building.

Allison stopped at the top of the staircase and whispered, “Isaac?”

The halo of golden curls bounced about on top of his head as he turned to look at her. “Yeah?”

“How did you know I had Shadowhunter blood?” she asked. “Was there some way you could tell?”

“I guessed,” he admitted. “It seemed like the most likely explanation.”

Allison blinked rapidly, her breath catching in her voice as she stared at him, her mouth agape with horror. “You guessed?”

He nodded.

“You must have been pretty sure, considering you could have killed me,” Allison rasped.

Isaac shrugged slightly. “I was ninety percent sure.”

Allison drew in a deep breath, composing herself. “I see.”

There was loud crack as her hand collided with his cheek. He stumbled back slightly, grabbing the bannister to steady himself from falling down the staircase. His brought his hand to his cheek, looking stunned as his bright blue eyes met her fierce gaze. “What was that for?”

“The other ten percent,” Allison said as she stepped around him and made her way down the stairs.

 

 

Beacon Hills was a small town compared to many others, but to walk from one end of town to the other took an hour or two. That time was spent in silence as Isaac walked beside her, his hands buried in his pockets and his pale cheek blossoming with a red mark where she had hit him.

As they walked, Allison caught sight of two teenage girls that were staring at Isaac and giggling.

Allison turned to look at Isaac. She knew why they were staring; he was gorgeous, with his tousled blonde curls, soft pink lips as smooth and delicate as the petals of a rose, his well-shaped body that was lean but muscular, and the vibrant blue irises that glittered like sapphires.

“Yes?” Isaac said, turning to look at her.

“The girls across the road have been eyeing you for a while,” Allison pointed out.

“Of course they are,” Isaac said without a hint of embarrassment or modesty. “I’m stunningly attractive.”

Allison brushed that comment aside. “How come they can see you?”

“Glamours - - the things we use to hide ourselves - - are a pain to use,” Isaac explained. “Sometimes we don’t bother.”

Allison’s gaze didn’t wonder.

“What?” Isaac asked. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Allison eyed him, squinting in thought as she asked, “Why are you always wearing black? Whose funeral is it?”

A smirk quirked his lips as he replied, “I haven’t decided yet.”

Allison rolled her eyes and dropped her gaze to the footpath.

“What else is on your mind?” Isaac asked.

“What was it Derek called you?… _Parabati_ ,” Allison said, keeping her eyes trained on the small cracks in the pavement where tufts of green burst through. “What does that mean?”

“It means we are a pair of warriors who fight together,” Isaac said. “Derek and I are more than friends; we are closer than brothers… His father was my mother’s best friend. When my family died, the Hales took me in.”

“I’m sorry,” Allison muttered.

“Why?” Isaac asked, turning to look at her. “You had nothing to do with it, so why should you be sorry?”

“Empathy,” Allison answered. “I am just starting to know what it’s like to lose both parents.”

“But did your father lock you in a freezer for half your childhood?”

Allison’s heart lurched. She opened her mouth, her lips quivering around unspoken words as she stared at him.

Isaac stopped walking. It took a moment for Allison to realise that they were standing before her apartment building.

They fell silent again as Allison dug into her pocket and drew out her keys. She slid the key into the lock and turned it, listening to the tumblers click into place. She felt her hands grow clammy as she pushed open the front door and began to make her way upstairs. Her hands were white-knuckled and trembling as she grabbed the banister and began to climb up to her apartment.

She unlocked the door and reached for the doorhandle when she felt a soft touch still her hand.

She looked up at Isaac.

“I’ll go first,” he said softly.

She nodded and stepped aside, watching as he drew the silver stick from his jacket pocket, the one he had called Sansavi. A gleaming crystal blade shot out of the end, glowing as he tightened his grip and reached for the doorhandle.

He shoved the door open, braced ready for an attack.

But nothing came.

He tightened his grip on the sword and searched the apartment. Allison peered around the doorframe, watching as he searched he open doorways before returning to her.

“It’s okay, you can come in,” he said.

Allison took two steps inside when she noticed something was wrong. The large corkboard that usually hung by the door – the one that her dad would pin reminders, bills and photographs on – was missing, as was the small white bowl that Chris always tossed his keys into that usually sat on the dresser. She took a few steps further into the hallway and noticed that the kitchen was in a pristine condition: the marble slate counter-top was in one piece, the cupboard doors screwed into place, the floor cleared of any shards of glass or shattered plates, and cleared of any appliances or decorations.

She turned and looked at the dining room and connected lounge room.

It was all clear: no damage, minimal furniture, and no sign they had ever been there. The pale beige walls were covered in faint patches that showed where bookshelves, clocks and her father’s paintings had once hung.

“You guys take ‘minimalistic’ to a whole new level,” Isaac mused, looking about the cleared space.

Allison turned around, shoving past him and running into her father’s study.

“Allison, wait,” Isaac called, but he was a second too late.

The door was thrown open and Allison was hurled back down the hallway as something slammed into her. She hit the far wall with a heavy thud, knocking the air from her lung and sending a burning wave of pain soaring through her veins.

Her head throbbed, her vision spinning and her ears filled with the deafening unhuman roar as she cracked her eyes open to see the monstrous beast loomed over her. The towering figure’s face was scarred with a lattice of scars and they brandished a broad axe, the blade as clear as glass with an engraved hilt that glowed in their grasp.

They spun around, something else catching their attention.

Isaac stood behind them, his sword ready and his face composed.

The creature lashed out at him but Isaac moved nimbly, dodging the attacks and diving side. His glowing blade tore through the monster’s bulging flesh, spilling blood across the floor and spraying it across the walls.

The orc-like creature staggered to a halt, buying Isaac all the time he needed to run down the hallway, grab Allison’s hand and haul her down the hall. They raced out into the hallway that overlooked the staircase. Isaac spun around and slammed the door shut on the creature before hurrying to Allison’s side. He set a hand between her shoulder blades and guided her back towards the stairwell.

The creature let out a horrific screech behind them, bursting through the door.

Isaac spun back around, readying his blade.

“Get downstairs!” Isaac shouted, his voice a mix of panic and manic delight. “Go!”

The beast charged at him.

Isaac acted quickly, dodging the oncoming attack and bringing up his blade in a sweeping arch that sliced through the creature’s chest.

Allison scurried out of the way, crouching on the stairwell as the debris of the shattered bannister flew over her head.

The creature fell over the edge of the landing, hitting the lobby floor with a gut-wrenching crack. It flailed slightly as it tried to get back to its feet, wriggling like a turtle flipped on its shell.

Isaac stepped up to the edge of the landing, looking down on the creature with unyielding composure. He took a step forward, calmly dropping down and pinning the creature to the ground.

They yielded, blood spewing from their mouth. Their scarlet eyes grew dull as they stared up at Isaac.

“I guess this is the part where I say something witty,” Isaac said.

He hoisted his blade up, pointing it down and driving it through the creature’s chest.

The creature shuddered for a moment before finally falling still, their body dissipating to ash.

Isaac straightening his back, staring down at the pile of dust and ash as he muttered, “I’m not witty.”

Allison was trembling as she slowly rose to her feet. Her knuckles were white against the skin of her hands as she stumbled down the staircase. She reached the bottom stair and practically fell into Isaac’s arms.

He was whispering to her, trying to calm her down but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the scorch marks on the dark hardwood floors.

“What was that?” Allison rasped, her throat painfully sore as she clung to Isaac.

“That was a Forsaken,” Isaac explained. “That’s what happens when you carve Marks onto someone who doesn’t have Shadowhunter blood. One Mark will burn you, many Marks…”

Allison pulled back slightly. “That… You could have turned me into that.”

“But I didn’t,” Isaac countered, shrinking back as if he feared another hit. When one didn’t come, he seemed to relax as he continued, “Forsaken are created to be mindless, rage-fuelled killers. Make enough of them, and you have yourself an army.”

“You think Gerard’s making an army?” Allison asked, steadying herself on her feet.

“If he’s planning to finish what he started seventeen years ago, then yes, he’s making an army,” Isaac mused, glaring at the scorch mark.

“Is there a reason you two are making so much noise?” a familiar voice asked.

Allison spun around.

Isaac caught a hold of her elbow, ushering her behind him as he readied his sword.

Miss Morrell stood in the doorway to her apartment, eyeing Isaac and his sword as he were a child playing with a balloon.

“Wait,” Allison muttered. “Two? You can see both of us?”

“Yes,” Miss Morrell answered.

“But you’re a mundane,” Isaac objected.

Miss Morrell smirked. “You seem to make that assumption quite often, don’t you, Isaac?”

The colour drained from Isaac’s face, his eyes darkening with a fierce glare as he seethed, “How do you know my name?”

“Why don’t you two come inside?” Miss Morrell offered, leaving the door open as she walked down the hallway and into the large space of her apartment.

Isaac hesitated for a moment.

Allison stepped around him and followed Miss Morrell into her apartment.

The apartment was laid out differently to Allison’s; the narrow hallway leading into a large common area before branching off into several closed doors. The large space had been set up as a parlour: velvet curtains drawn shut over the windows, a large table with a vibrant purple and scarlet tablecloth sat in the middle of the room, large oak bookshelves lined with old books were pushed back against the walls, and various framed posters of phrenology, constellations, zodiacs and palm reading hung on the walls. Half-melted candles sat on the few vacant spaces, streams of wax dripping down their sides.

Allison half expected the room to smell of suffocating incense and cheap scented candles, but the apartment was rather vacant of pungent smells.

“I would draw the curtains, but I don’t want to be seen with a Shadowhunter,” Miss Morrell said as she brought out a tray of tea and set it down on the table.

Isaac nodded and stepped into the larger room. He sat down on the plush cushion of the seat before the table.

Miss Morrell set a tea cup before him and offered, “Tea?”

“As long as it’s not Earl Grey,” Isaac replied. “I hate bergamot.”

Miss Morrell nodded and poured the tea into his cup.

Isaac glanced at Allison, who looked back at him with and expression of amazement as she sat down in the chair next to him.

“What?” he asked.

“You may be the only guy my age who knows what bergamot is, much less that it’s in Earl Grey tea,” Allison muttered, taking the cup of tea that Miss Morrell offered her with a kind smile.

“Yeah, well, I’m not like other guys,” Isaac said with a smirk. “Besides, we had to learn basic medicinal uses for plants.”

For some reason – after everything she’d seen in the past few days – that didn’t surprise her.

Allison sipped at the tea, the warm beverage calming her nerves. Desperate to break the silence, she asked, “Is there anything else you hate that I should know about?”

Isaac turned his gaze on Miss Morrell, the glimmer of his eyes darkening to a fierce glare once again as he said, “Liars.”

Miss Morrell met his gaze. “I have not once lied.”

“You’re not a mundane,” Isaac growled.

“I never said I was,” Miss Morrell countered. “I merely pointed out that you _assumed_ that much. Just like you assumed Allison was a mundane too.”

“You know about me?” Allison asked.

“I don’t know much,” Miss Morrell admitted. “Only that you have the blood of an angel.”

“And you?” Isaac questioned.

“Demon and human,” Miss Morrell replied without a hint of shame. “In your words, a warlock.”

“So, if Shadowhunters are the offspring of angels and humans, and warlocks of demons and humans, what about vampires and werewolves?” Allison asked, wincing as if the information was giving her a headache.

“They’re demonic diseases,” Isaac explained simply. “While most of them kill humans, there are cases which involve changed humans. But most of them affect Shadowhunters, demons and warlocks.”

“I understand this is confusing for you,” Miss Morrell said softly. “Your father did mention that he was trying to keep this from you.”

“Why?” Allison asked.

“I do not know,” Miss Morrell admitted. She paused for a moment before reaching across the table. “May I?”

Allison looked confused for a moment before realising that she was looking at the teacup in the girl’s hands. Allison nodded and handed it over.

Miss Morrell took a moment to look at the remnants of tea leaves before frowning in confusion.

“Is it bad?” Allison asked.

“It isn’t anything,” Miss Morrell admitted.

“What do you mean?”

Miss Morrell held out her hand and Isaac offered his cup.

“Yours, I can read,” she mused. “I see violence in your future; a great deal of blood will be shed by you and those you call you friends. You don’t believe in love but you are soon to learn what it is. I see rage and a confrontation with your greatest enemy…” She turned her attention back to Allison’s cup. “Yours, however, seems unreadable. As if your mind – your memories and your future – are being blocked.”

“Who would put a block in my mind?” Allison asked.

“Your father perhaps,” Miss Morrell offered.

Allison was about to object when she stopped herself; her father had tried to keep this from her, it _was_ possible he would go to the extremes to do so.

“Let’s try something else,” Miss Morrell said, rising to her feet to collect a weathered wooden box. The polished wood was marred with age and scars, the dark pine taking on a cherry-red colour.

She set it down on the table and opened it, pulling out a stack of cards that were wrapped in a velvet cloth.

She laid them out on the table and instructed, “Let your hand hover over the cards until you feel as if one speaks to you.”

Allison drew in a deep breath and did as she was told.

She felt nothing.

She reached forward and flipped one of the cards over, revealing the painting of an ornate chalice. The cup was made of pale glass with streams of gold coiled around it like veins around the body. The gold rim was studded with blood-red rubies that gleamed as they caught the light.

“The Ace of Cups,” Miss Morrell mused. “The card of love.”

“Is that bad?” Allison asked.

“Not necessarily,” Miss Morrell said. “It is true that the most terrible things men do, they do in the name of love, but at the same time, love is the most powerful force on the planet and takes many forms; platonic, familial, romantic… What does the card say to you?”

Allison picked it up, eyeing it suspiciously. “I’ve seen this before… My dad painted it, didn’t he?”

Miss Morrell nodded. “He painted the whole pack as a gift for me.”

“How well did you know Allison’s dad?” Isaac asked, his voice shaking Allison from her dazed state.

“He knew what I was and I knew what he was,” Miss Morrell replied. “We did not talk often, but I promised him shelter and protection.”

“From what?” Isaac pushed.

“Gerard.”

“What do you mean ‘what’ my dad was?” Allison croaked, setting the card down and looking at Miss Morrell.

“Christopher was what he was, but in his past life he had been one of them,” she said, looking at Isaac. “A Shadowhunter.”

“No,” Allison whispered. “No, he would have told me.”

“Not if he was trying to keep you hidden,” Isaac said softly.

“Hidden from what?”

“Gerard, for a start,” Isaac replied.

“But everyone thought he was dead,” Allison countered.

“ _Sed lex dura lex_ ,” Miss Morrell said as if quoting something.

“What does that mean?” Allison asked.

“‘The Law is hard, but it is the Lay’,” Isaac translated. “It’s the motto of the Covenant; those who rule us.”

“And, sometimes, the Law is too hard,” Miss Morrell muttered, her hand absentmindedly reaching up to caress the pale, scarred tissue on her neck. “Why punish a child for the sins of their father?”

Her dark eyes met Isaac’s and he bowed his head in shame.

Allison was about to push for answers when Miss Morrell rose from her seat and said, “I’m afraid I cannot help you anymore. If you want answers, you are going to have to find who blocked your memories and get them to reverse it.”

Allison nodded and rose to her feet.

“Thank you,” she whispered before turning to leave.

Isaac followed her out onto the pavement.

“We need to head back to the Institute,” Isaac said lowly, his bright eyes focused on the door of the apartment building as if he feared Miss Morrell was still listening.

“I still need clothes,” Allison said.

“You can always borrow some from Lydia,” Isaac offered with a devilish smirk.

Allison glared at him. “Keep that attitude up and I’ll give you a matching red mark on your other cheek.”

Isaac’s smirk fell.

“Luckily for me, I keep a go bag at Scott’s,” Allison said. “I tend to sleep over at his place a lot and it was easier to leave my stuff there than to lug it back and forth. His place is a few streets over; a pit stop on the way back to the Institute. It’ll only take ten minutes.”

“Okay, we’ll go to Scott’s and pick up your bag, then we go straight back to the Institute,” Isaac said firmly.

He set his hand between Allison’s shoulder blades and guided her down the street, his glare focused on the apartment building until they were out of sight.

A few minutes later, they stood before Scott’s unit.

Allison paused.

“What’s wrong?” Isaac asked.

“Scott told me not to come here,” Allison rasped.

“And you just accept that?” Isaac asked.

Allison shrugged slightly. “Do I have a choice?”

“We always have a choice,” Isaac replied. “And, if I were you, I’d be curious about why my best friend rejected your plea for sanctuary.”

Allison let out a heavy sigh.

Isaac smiled, knowing he had won her over. “Do you have a key to his place?”

Allison nodded, shuffling her keys about until she found the blue key that was cut for Scott’s place. The edges had been worn away by use, revealing seams of polished steel beneath the paint. It felt warm in her hand, so familiar and comforting.

She slid the key into the lock and turned it, unlocking the apartment and hurrying inside. She shoved her keys into her pocket and told Isaac to lock the door behind himself before hurrying down the hallway to the spare bedroom. It was full of moving boxes and all the stuff Scott was yet to find a place for. In among the mess was a duffle bag full of clothes, shoes, a couple of accessories, and some toiletries.

She reached for it when the clicking of the lock stopped her.

She reacted quickly, grabbing Isaac by the front of his shirt and pulling him into the small space. She shut the door and held a finger to her lips.

Isaac nodded, listening as the front door opened and Scott entered the unit.

Allison waited until she heard the rattling of dishes in the kitchen before she looked back up at Isaac. At that moment, she realised just how close they were, their bodies pressed against each other in the limited space of the box-filled room.

“What are you doing?” she asked in a hushed voice.

“Nothing,” Isaac replied shortly, like a child who had been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

“Well, part of you is doing something,” Allison hissed, nodding downwards.

Isaac’s cheeks were flushed with a red blush as he stammered, “Uh… I’m sorry.”

“Stop it,” Allison whispered.

“I kind of don’t have control over that.”

Allison bit into her lips to stop herself from smiling. She turned around, pressing her back to his chest.

“Allison?” he whispered, the heat of his breath tickling her ear.

“Yes?”

“That’s worse.”

Allison cupped her hands over her mouth to stop herself from laughing.

The moment passed as Isaac dropped his head to her shoulder, wincing in pain and hissing, “I can’t stay in here.”

“Just a little longer,” Allison said softly.

“And what if Scott doesn’t leave?” Isaac asked. Isaac balled his fists, his hands trembling. “I can’t stay in here… Please…”

Allison reached back, taking his hand in hers. She opened her mouth to say something when a loud thump echoed throughout the unit. She heard Scott curse as he made his way over to the front door. She opened the door slightly, just enough to peer out into the hallway.

“What do you want?” Scott growled as a man in scarlet red robes stepped into the foyer.

The man pulled back the hood. He was a young man, roughly the same age as Scott and herself, with a strong jaw, clear eyes and short-cropped chestnut brown hair. His face was pulled back into a cynical snarl as he said, “Consider this a friendly follow-up, McCall.”

Isaac’s hand tightened, making Allison wince. She bit into her lip to stop herself crying out in shock.

“There’s nothing friendly about you, Whittemore,” Scott snapped back.

Allison flinched. She had never seen Scott like that; he _never_ got angry.

“I suppose Gerard sent you?”

“He did,” the young man said. “He thought you might have changed your mind.”

“I haven’t and I won’t,” Scott said boldly. “I thought I made it painfully clear that I don’t want anything to do with Gerard; I’m not going to try and stop him. If he’s trying to restart the Uprising, I want to get as far away from here as I can get.”

“Where’s the Cup?” the man called Whittemore asked.

“I don’t know,” Scott admitted. “I know Chris hid it and that’s all.”

“That’s not all he hid, was it? He had a daughter.”

“Allison,” Scott muttered. “Did Gerard send you to find her too?”

“Not me, but he is looking.”

“What makes you think she’s still alive?” Scott asked.

“There was a dead ravener,” Whittemore muttered.

“Chris could have killed it,” Scott said. “He was certainly capable. His daughter, however, isn’t.”

“Oh?”

“She’s seventeen years old and knows nothing of our world; she’s never heard of Gerard and doesn’t believe in demons, werewolves, or anything that goes bump in the night.”

“A fortunate child,” Whittemore said with a smirk.

“Not anymore,” Scott growled. “You took the only family she had.”

“And we will return him once we have the Cup,” Whittemore said.

“I don’t know where it is,” Scott repeated.

Whittemore nodded and turned. He grabbed the doorknob and pulled it open, flicking up the hood o his robe as he said, “Let me know if you have a resurgence of memory.”

Without another word, the young man stepped out of the house, the door closing behind him.

As soon as he was gone, Scott swore under his breath, grabbing his coat, phone and keys and racing out the front door.

They waited a minute before stepping out of the spare room.

Allison felt her chest ache, the sweet relief of air dancing – unreachable – across her lips. She collapsed to her knees, hot tears welling in her eyes, falling against the polished floorboards. Somewhere in the distance, she heard Isaac call her names, and warm arms pull her into an embrace.

“I want to go,” Allison whispered, tears streaking her cheeks.

“Okay,” Isaac said quietly, helping her to her feet and holding her steady while he grabbed the bag of her stuff. He guided her out of the unit, holding her against his chest as they walked through the crisp air.

The setting sun smeared the sky with colour as Allison slowly returned to her senses.

She felt her phone buzzing in her pocket. She pulled it out just as the call ended and realised that she had missed five calls, all from Scott.

“Who was that guy?” Allison asked.

“Jackson Whittemore,” Isaac replied.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide with shock. “You know him?”

Isaac nodded curtly. “He’s the bastard that killed my father.”


	5. Hidden Memories

Allison stopped before her bedroom door, turning and putting her hand to Isaac’s chest to stop him from following.

He looked stunned, as if she had shaken him awake.

“I can get dressed by myself,” Allison said, stepping inside the room that Lydia had set up for her.

A devilish smirk lifted the corners of Isaac’s lips as he returned to his usual self and said, “Are you sure you don’t want any help.”

Allison returned the smile. “If I do, I’ll be sure to call Lydia.”

Isaac looked hurt as Allison took the duffle bag of clothes from him and shut the door.

She quickly stripped out of Cora’s constricting clothes, breathing out a sigh of relief. She dug through her bag and pulled out the first thing she found: a black cotton dress embroided with faded grey and lilac. The skirt fell down to her knees – a few inches longer than most of Lydia’s skirts and just enough to make Allison feel comfortable.

In the bag was her leather jacket from the other night. She shrugged that on and pinned her hair back out of her face.

It felt good to be back in her own clothes again.

She folded up the clothes Cora had loaned her and left them by the bag on the bed and stepped out into the hallway.

Isaac was still standing where she had left him, slouched against the doorframe and patiently waiting for her. He looked at her as she exited, his brow raised in surprise as his eyes rolled over her. He nodded contently and said, “You look lovely.”

“Thank you,” Allison replied just as Cora stepped around the corner.

“Dinner’s ready,” she called.

Isaac flinched, an expression of terror filling his face.

“I ordered take out,” Cora seethed, glaring at him.

He let out a sigh of relief and led the way towards the kitchen where the others were gathering.

“What was that about?” Allison asked.

“Cora may have a lot in common with her brother and sister, but one thing she does not have is their ability to cook,” Isaac explained. “She’s a good Shadowhunter, but a terrible cook.”

“What about the others?”

“Lydia’s the best ‘hunter I’ve ever known, but another terrible cook.”

“And Derek?” Allison asked.

“He’s a brilliant cook,” Isaac said, licking his lips reminiscently. “But as a Shadowhunter… I don’t know. He’s killed a number of vampires, werewolves and strays, but he’s never killed a demon.”

Allison looked stunned. “Why not?”

“I don’t know,” Isaac admitted. “Maybe because he’s always protecting the rest of us.”

Their conversation fell short as they stepped into the kitchen.

Derek’s bright eyes snapped to them, filling with a mix of anger and worry as he asked, “What in the name of the Angel happened to you two?”

“We were attacked,” Isaac answered, sitting down on one of the stools at the bench and pulling containers of take out close to him. He began to fork the food onto his plate as he added, “Forsaken.”

“Forsaken warriors?” Lydia gasped.

“Warrior,” Isaac corrected. “We only saw one. But there might have been more.” He shook his head. “That’s not the important thing… The Circle is back.”

Everyone fell silence and still, their eyes focused on Isaac as if he had just told them the world would end any second.

“What’s the Circle?” Allison asked after a moment.

“ _I hereby render unconditional obedience to the Circle and its principles… I will be ready to risk my own life at any time for the Circle, in order to preserve the purity of the bloodlines of Idris and for the mortal world with whose safety we are charged_ ,” Deaton recited as he stepped into the kitchen. “The loyalty oath of the Circle of Raziel.”

“Sounds like a fascist organisation,” Allison commented.

“In a way, they were,” Deaton said as he sat down. “They were a group of Shadowhunters, led by Gerard, dedicated to wiping out all Downworlders and returning the world to a ‘pure’ state. Their plan was to wait for the Downworlders to arrive in Idris to sign the Accords and then slaughter them all when they were unarmed and defenceless. The Circle was the spark that started the war between humans, Downworlders and Nephilim – one that Gerard intended to win.”

“It’s known in history as the Uprising,” Derek added. “The war lasted two years and killed many.”

“Including our dad,” Cora added.

“How do you know the oath?” Lydia asked.

“Because I was part of the Circle,” Deaton admitted. “As were the parents of everyone in this room.”

A stunned silence settled over the kitchen as everyone turned to look at Deaton.

“No,” Derek gasped, shaking his head. “No, you’re lying.”

“The original members of the Circle included, Gerard, myself--” He turned and looked at Allison. “-Christopher and Victoria Argent.” He turned to look at Lydia and Isaac. “Natalie Martin, Johnathan Lahey and your brother, Camden--” He turned his gaze to Cora and Derek and added, “and Robert, Talia, and Peter Hale. We were the original Circle.”

“You’re lying,” Lydia objected.

“We were as young as you all are, we were naïve, stupid and blind,” Deaton said, his soft voice full of regret. “Gerard was a mentor to us all. He twisted our minds so we would hand on every word he said.”

“No,” Allison rasped. “My dad wouldn’t.”

“He didn’t have a choice,” Deaton whispered, bowing his head in shame.

“What do you mean?” Allison asked, her voice scratching at her dry throat.

“He was Gerard’s son.”

Allison’s chest collapsed in on itself, a painful agony flooding her body as her heart slammed against her ribs and her lungs ached for air. Her face grew pale, her vision blurring as her body began to sway on her seat.

“Allison,” Isaac whispered, reaching across her for her.

Her hands trembled and she looked as if she were about to pass out. Hot tears seared her flesh as they rolled down her ghostly-white cheeks.

“That’s enough, Deaton,” Derek growled, stepping around the long bench and hurrying to Allison’s side. He held her upright and whispered to her, handing her a glass of water.

Allison shook her head and said, “No, I need to hear this… I need to know.”

Derek nodded, still standing behind her and holding her upright.

Allison looked up at Deaton. “What happened?”

“Some of us were smart enough to leave when we could. Christopher and Victoria were the first to leave, then myself, Camden, Robert and Talia… Peter, Johnathan, Loraine, Jackson and many others, however, stayed loyal. And for their misplaced loyalty, they were punished. Loraine and Johnathan were each exiled, but Peter’s connections into the higher members of the Clave meant he got a lighter punishment.”

“Typical,” Cora muttered under her breath.

Deaton turned to look at Allison. “Your parents would have been saved the punishment; they were the first to abandon Gerard and warn the Clave of his plans, but they vanished.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” Allison asked.

“I did not know your father’s name. I thought it could be coincidental that you were a child of Clave blood with the surname of Argent. I didn’t know your father was Christopher.”

“Stop saying that,” Allison snapped.

“Saying what?” Deaton asked, slightly taken aback.

“’Christopher’,” Allison replied. “He hates being called Christopher… and now I know why…”

Another blanket of silence settled over the kitchen.

Derek sat down on the stool next to Allison’s, piling some food onto a plate and setting it before her. Allison looked up at him with an expression of shock.

Why was he suddenly being so nice to her?

“You should eat something,” he said softly. “It’ll make you feel better.”

Allison nodded and reached for the fork. She poked at her food, shoving everything out of her mind just long enough to realise she was hungry. As she ate, she realised that this was the first meal she had eaten in four days, ever since the nachos she had had with Scott before going to the nightclub on Sunday.

It was delicious: chunks of chicken rolled in sweet honey batter, slivers of pork that broke away in her mouth, cooked vegetables that were covered in sauces, flavoursome fried rice and crunchy spring rolls.

Derek returned to his sister’s side and the six of them ate in silence.

Allison broke the silence, “We have to find the Cup before Gerard does.”

Everyone’s gazes snapped up to look at her.

“If he’s planning to build an army, then we have to find the Cup and keep it from him,” Allison insisted.

“Do you know where it is?” Deaton asked.

Allison shook her head.

“I think you do,” Isaac said softly. “It’s just locked away... up here…”

He reached forward and gently brushed aside a stray strand of Allison’s raven-black hair.

“How do I get it out?” Allison asked.

Deaton’s face brightened as a thought struck him. He straightened his back and said, “I have an idea.”

 

 

Allison stood in the dull room, her dark eyes focused on the glittering surface of the water that filled the bathtub, the rippling waves disturbed by the layers of ice cubes and mistletoe berries.

She swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her ears.

She was regretting her choice of clothes, feeling exposed as the soft cotton of her skirt brushed against the back of her thighs and a chill ran up her spine.

“It’ll be okay,” Deaton assured her. “We’ll be here the whole time.”

“Can you… Can you run this by me again?” Allison stammered.

“The ice will lower your body temperature to a hypothermic state,” Deaton explained. “It’ll send you into a trance-like state that will allow you to access your subconscious. It will be like lucid dreaming.”

Allison nodded.

“You will need something to anchor yourself to this world and someone with a strong emotional bond to hold you under and to know when to pull you up,” Deaton said.

“Well, I have one of those,” Allison replied, pulling her mother’s necklace from around her neck and balling it into her fist.

Deaton nodded.

“Derek,” he said, turning to the eldest boy. “I need you to hold her under.”

They all looked stunned.

“Me?” he asked.

“You’re the only one here who understands,” Deaton said knowingly.

And it was true; Derek was the only one who had known and loved both of his parents, he knew what it was like for one to die and the other to leave. Isaac didn’t have that connection with his father, nor Lydia with her mother, and Robert had died before Cora was born. So, Derek was the only one who did understand the emotional pain Allison was going through.

Derek nodded and stepped around to the end of the bathtub. He glanced up, seeing the fear in Allison’s eyes.

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” he said softly.

Allison shook her head. “I need to.”

She shrugged off her jacket and pulled the hair tie out of her hair, letting the long raven-black waved fall around her shoulders.

Derek held a hand out for her and she took it, letting him keep her upright as she stepped into the bathtub.

She gasped in surprise, the icy water stinging at her exposed shins. She let out a deep breath and sank down into the water, sitting upright as she tried to calm herself.

She could hear the chain of her mother’s necklace scraping against the metal tub as she balled it in her fist and kept her hand on the lip of the tub.

Derek set his large hands on her shoulders.

She felt the reassuring warmth of his touch and the weight on her slender shoulders and something in the back of her mind told her she’d be okay.

“When you’re ready,” Deaton said softly. “Just let everything go.”

Allison let out a deep breath and sunk beneath the surface of the water.

The cubes of ice bumped into her as the parted water collapsed over her and she was pulled down to the bottom of the bathtub. Her lungs ached and the instinct to survive screamed for her to fight back, but she resisted, laying still in the cold water. Her lose hair drifted about her face, casting shadows against the back of her eyes as she imagined her skin bathed in the rippling refraction of light.

She felt bubbles tickle her skin as the last wisps of air fell past her lips and she fell – weightless - into a dark oblivion.

When she opened her eyes, they were tired and heavy. The wet strands of her hair were plastered to the side of her face as she bounced slightly on her father’s shoulder.

She was two years old and she had fallen asleep at the park, dressed in her neon yellow rain coat with little blue ducks along the hem and matching boots.

She opened her eyes, looking up at the young man following them.

He wore a black leather jacket and black jeans, the collar of the cotton shirt beneath dipped down enough to show the black swirls of lines that covered his olive skin. The scruff of a beard shadowed his square jaw and his thick black hair was cropped short but tousled about by the crisp winter wind. He looked the same age as her dad, his pale blue eyes the colour of ice and his face lit with a kind smile as she met his gaze. He waved at her.

She smiled back, showing off what few teeth had broken through her gums.

Chris seemed to notice she had stirred, craning his neck to look at her before turning around to follow her gaze.

“Robert,” Chris said, his voice full of surprise and happiness. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see how my _parabati_ was,” Robert replied. “She’s beautiful. Probably because she doesn’t get her looks form you.”

Chris laughed, adjusting his hold on Allison so she could look at Robert too.

“Allison,” her dad said softly. “This is daddy’s friend, Robert. Say hi.”

Allison babbled something along the lines of ‘Hello’ and hid her blushing face in Chris’ shoulder.

Robert chuckled.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Allison,” he said. “Your daddy is a good man, do you know that?”

Allison blinked her eyes and found herself somewhere else. She was sitting on her parent’s bed in their apartment in France.

She watched as her mother hurried over to a small wooden box and pulled it open. Inside was a brass plate inscribed with the words ‘ _Nous protégeons ceux qui ne peuvent pas se protéger eux-mêmes’_. Inside the box was a metal want, the hilt carved with runes and decorated with curves and coils of metal that were moulded into vine-like patterns.

She remembered the stinging of her flesh, like carpet burn, as her mother drew a rune onto Allison’s right side. She picked up her daughter and sat her down in the bottom of their wardrobe. Her face was full of fear and panic as she whispered, “Remember, sweetie, they can’t see you, if you can’t see them.”

She shut the closet doors and Allison squeezed her eyes shut.

She remembered the sounds: bodies crashing against walls, wood splintering, glass shattering and the trickle of what she could only assume was blood pooling on the tiles.

When she opened her eyes, her dad was standing before her, his cold composure shattered and his face twisted with fear as he hoisted Allison into his arms. He let out a sigh of relief and collapsed on the bed, cradling her to his chest.

“What were you thinking, Victoria?” he hissed, pulling up the corner of Allison’s shirt to reveal the black lines burnt into her skin.

“I had to protect her,” her mother argued.

“She’s eight-years-old,” Chris retorted. “The Mark could have killed her!”

“But it didn’t,” she countered, moving the stele across the inside of her arm as she carved a healing rune into her flesh. “It’ll fade and leave a scar, but we’ll just tell her it was her appendix.”

“We have to do something,” Chris muttered. “I’ll find somewhere else to live, somewhere far away like Beacon Hills, California. We’ll take her somewhere to have her memories removed.”

“I am not letting you take her to the Silent Brothers,” Victoria cried.

“No,” Chris replied, his calmness returning. “That would notify the Clave. I’ll find a warlock… Vic, we have to keep her out of this world; the less she knows, the safer she’ll be.”

The next thing she knew, her father was carrying her down an abandoned street, the lights of the street lamps flickering in the quiet night. Beacon Hills was a quiet town, but this end of the county was silent. The building they were looking for was nestled among abandoned workshops and industrial buildings.

It was a huge, intimidating industrial building. It was built up ten storeys high and looked over the entirety of Beacon Hills. The neighbouring buildings were run down, some in ruins and others just abandoned and tagged. But this building stood tall among the rest, old but not the least bit damaged.

Chris hurried up to the door and knocked.

A blinding blue light filled Allison’s mind and the next thing she knew, she was standing on the curb outside the town library where she had once done art classes. Her phone buzzed in her bag and she set everything down to pull it out.

A photo of her own face, squinting in joy as her dad pressed a kiss to her temple lit the screen.

She answered the call. “Hi, Dad. Class just finished. I’m on my way home right now.”

“Allison, I need you to come to the hospital,” her father said, his husky voice strained.

Her breath caught in her throat as she asked, “Dad, what’s wrong?”

“It’s your mother…”

Her breath fell past her trembling lips and her lungs aching for air. She grabbed her bag and ran to Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital.

When she got there, her father was standing in the waiting room, his icy-blue eyes staring down the hallway to where a nurse – Scott’s mum – disappeared into one of the rooms.

“Dad,” she whimpered.

He turned around to look at her, his face composed despite the pain that pooled in his eyes.

“Dad… No… Dad, if something happened… you’d better tell me… you’d better tell me…”

Her vision was streaked by tears as he lips trembled around the words.

Chris took a step closer, resting a gentle hand on her arm as he said her name.

She didn’t hear anything else he said; her own cries drowned out the world around her. Tears coursed down her cheeks as she collapsed in his arms, her fists balling around handfuls of his shirt as she desperately tried to keep herself upright.

“What happened?” she cried. “What happened?”

Her father never gave her an answer, he just kept whispering, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Sobs tore themselves from her chest as her legs gave way beneath her and Chris fell to the floor with her, cradling her to his chest and whispering softly to her.

The blinding blue light returned. When it faded, she found herself standing at the front door of her apartment. She lifted the keys in her hand and unlocked the door, stepping inside. She tossed the keys onto the small table by the door and took a step forward.

“Allison? Is that you?” her dad called from his studio – the third bedroom in the apartment that he had filled with his art supplies.

“Dad,” she gasped, relief washing over her at the sound of his voice.

She kicked up her keeps and ran forward, but no sooner has she passed her bedroom door did she find herself standing outside her front door.

She unlocked it, tossed the keys aside and ran for her dad.

The same thing happened.

She stood before the front door, unlocked it and stepped inside.

“Allison? Is that you?” her dad called.

She ran forward and found herself standing before her front door again, and again, and again.

“What do you want from me?” she screamed.

Taking a moment to compose herself, she lifted the keys in her hand once more, unlocked the door and stepped inside. She tossed her keys onto the small table and turned, looking at the cork board that hung by the front door.

A note caught her attention, on it was the neat scrawls of her father’s handwriting. It was a name; one she didn’t recognise.

She pulled the note from the board, eyeing it suspiciously.

There was something familiar about that name, but she couldn’t put it together.

She let the note fall from her fingertips, the thin piece of paper hitting the ground with a sound as loud as rolling thunder.

She turned around, looking back out the front door.

The walls around her began to crack and shatter, streams of water flooding the landing.

She stood still and watched as the world around her gave way like a flood gate. The water came rushing in, the wave slamming into her and knocking her off her feet.

She bolted upright, a painful scream torn from her chest.

The sound died away, her breath falling weakly past her lips as she sat still, dripping wet and trembling from the cold.

She could see the silhouettes of people rush around her, but she couldn’t make out who they were.

Strong arms hoisted her out of the tub and onto the polished concrete floor. They held her close as a familiar voice said, “Lydia, get some towels and blankets; she’s in shock. We need to get her dry and warm.”

Slowly, she returned to her senses, looking up at Derek’s clear aventurine eyes.

“I knew your dad,” she rasped. “Only briefly… but I knew him…”

She looked around.

The others had left them alone so Allison could calm down.

The room was cold and quiet.

Allison scrambled to her feet and rushed towards the nearby desk. She grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and scrawled two things down before turning and handing them to Derek.

“Do either of these make sense to you?” she asked.

Derek read them and nodded. “ _Nous protégeons ceux qui ne peuvent pas se protéger eux-mêmes_ : We protect those who cannot protect themselves. It’s the motto of the Nephilim, what we live by.”

His eyes ran over the page again as he read the name, the one that her dad had written on a note.

“I know that one too,” Derek said. “He’s the high warlock of Beacon Hills… Stiles Stilinski.”


	6. Stiles Stilinski

The room was painted white with gold decorations and patterning on the high walls. It pristine and the glass roof above them refracted the light like a diamond.

Allison found herself wearing a green velvet dress with gold embroidery and emeralds. Her hair was twisted into a knot that spilled curls.

She was spinning, dancing.

“Do you see someone more interesting than me?” her dance partner asked, pulling her back into his arms.

She froze for a moment.

Scott.

He was wearing all black, like a Shadowhunter, and it showed his colouring to good advantage: dark hair, olive-toned skin, and the flashing white smile.

"There's no-one more interesting than you," Allison said. "It's just… This place... I've never seen anything like it."

She turned again, she saw Derek and Cora standing by the far wall; Derek was dressed in a royal blue suit that was embroidered with gold decals and accompanied by a gold dress shirt while Cora was dressed in a matching royal blue dress with glittering gold gems and fine golden stitching.

"Welcome to the Glass City," said a familiar voice, not Scott’s

She was pulled back, finding herself pressed up against Isaac’s body, his deep blue eyes staring at her with a swirling tide of emotions she couldn’t distinguish. He was wearing white, the thin cotton of his shirt opaque enough that she could see the black Marks beneath it, the thick lines covering his body. There was a bronze chain pilled to the collar of his dress shirt, adding a touch of glamour to his bland white shirt and black jacket. His unruly sandy curls were thrown about his face, highlighting his angelic, marblesque face.

"Where's Scott?" she asked as they spun again around, searching the room.

"This place is for the living," Isaac said. His hands felt cool on hers as he held her close.

Her voice caught in her throat, her expression warped by shock and fear as she rasped, "What do you mean?"

He leant in so close that she could feel his lips brush against her ear as he whispered, “Wake up.”

She bolted upright, gasping for air.

Frantically looking around, she found herself in her room at the Institute with the familiar duffle bag sitting at the end of her bed and her wet dress – now dry – hanging over the back of a nearby chair; she half-remembered getting changed back in her room, her hands shaking as she stripped out of icy, wet dress and pulled on whatever clothes were within reach – jeans and a shirt – while Derek stood in the corner or the room with his eyes turned away from her.

She didn’t remember falling asleep; she remembered Derek walking her back to her room and sitting with her until she calmed down. The next thing she remembered was waking up.

For a moment, she considered calling Scott, but something told her not to.

With a heavy sigh, she rose to her feet and walked across the room. She stood before the mirror, pulling up the bottom of her shirt and eyeing the faint white line that marred the pale flesh of her right side. For years, she had believed it was a scar from when she had her appendix taken out all those years ago, but to now know it was the scar left by a Mark… Maybe she owed Isaac an apology; he wasn’t the first to Mark her after all.

A quiet knock at her door interrupted her thoughts.

She dropped the hem of her shirt and straightened her clothes before calling out, “Come in.”

Lydia pushed open the door and stepped into her room, offering a sweet smile. She was dressed in a black dress with a short skirt that seemed to fall from the curves of her hips like a waterfall of ink. It was pulled into a halter neck and embroidered with fine silver stitching that formed floral patterns. Her copper curls had been wrangled into a smooth wave that fell over her shoulders, held back from her face by a braided halo. The braid was decorated with small glittering gems that complimented her glittering eyeshadow.

“What are you wearing to Stilinski’s party?”

“I was just going to wear this,” Allison said, gesturing down at herself.

Lydia laughed. “Oh, no, you’re not. Come on.”

She snatched up Allison’s hand and dragged her down the hallway to her own room. She sat Allison down on the end of her bed and began to dig through her wardrobe. She grabbed a bunch of clothes and tossed them onto the bed: black dresses that looked like strips of fabric that wouldn’t cover much.

She picked them up, one by one, and inspected them before offering one to Allison.

“Try this one on,” she said, nodding to the screens in the corner of the room.

Allison sighed and did as she was told. She took the dress from Lydia and changed. The cotton was thick but soft, detailed with faint patterns of lace. The straps sat on her shoulders and dove into a deep plunge, revealing what little cleavage Allison had. The heavy pendant of her mother’s necklace sat against her collarbone. It was fitted around the waist before flaring out into a rippling skirt that came down to mid-thigh.

“There’s no way I can pull this off,” Allison objected, staying behind the privacy screens.

“You can pull off any outfit with the right boots,” Lydia said, passing Allison a pair of small ankle-boots.

Allison pulled them on, grateful that they had chunks for heels rather than the stilettoes that Lydia often wore. She tugged at the skirt of the dress, wishing that it had just been a few inches longer. With a heavy sigh, she gave up and stepped out from behind the screens.

Lydia’s eyes went wide. “You look stunning.”

“I agree,” Cora said, appearing in the doorway.

“Thank you,” Allison whispered, her cheeks flushed with a bright red blush.

Lydia seemed to notice, quickly moving things along. “Come sit down and I’ll do your hair and makeup.”

Allison did as she was told.

Lydia wrestled with the mess of black curls, pulling them up into a loose bun and pinning it in place while calling over her shoulder, “Is your brother dressed?”

“Yes,” Cora replied. “And I made sure he wore something fitting.”

“I hope you mean slim-fitting,” Lydia teased.

“Ugh, _gross_ ,” Cora cried out with a shudder.

Lydia giggled and began to search through the mess of bottles, tissues, brushes, and containers of makeup, perfumes and various other things.

Behind her, Cora picked up one of the strapless dresses – the one made of black silk and covered in diamonds and silver sequins. She looked at Lydia pleadingly and asked, “Can I wear this one?”

“No,” Lydia answered shortly, reaching forward to take the dress from Cora’s hands.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re not coming,” Lydia replied, hanging the dress up in her closet.

“What? Why not?” Cora cried.

“Because your brother said so,” Lydia answered. “You’re fifteen, Cora. I promise, the day you turn sixteen, I will take you to every Downworlder party and nightclub in Beacon Hills. Until then, take it up with your brother; I’m just repeating what he said.”

Cora pouted and stormed out of the room.

“Hey, Lydia,” Allison said quietly. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” Lydia said, picking up an eyeliner pencil and bringing it to Allison’s eye. She moved swiftly, applying a light coat of makeup; Allison didn’t need much.

“Is… Is Derek gay?”

Lydia’s hands froze.

“Oh, hell,” she muttered. She took a few steps back and collapsed on the edge of her bed. “I guess you could say that. We would say he’s bisexual, but we’ve only ever seen him lay eyes on guys. He dates girls, but it’s almost as if he has to in order to keep up the image. None of those relationships have lasted though… How did you guess?”

Allison shrugged.

“You can’t tell anyone,” Lydia said adamantly.

“Why not?” Allison asked.

“I don’t know how his family would react and, while there isn’t an official rue about it, people – especially the elders – don’t like it. If it happens, you don’t talk about it because he risks being exiled… Almost all of us know about it, but still… We don’t want anything to happen to Derek.”

“I understand. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”

Lydia took a moment to compose herself before rising to her feet and returning to Allison’s side to finish the glamourous make-over.

“All done,” she chirped after a minute or two, stepping back, heling Allison to her feet, and guiding Allison towards the door.

Allison caught a glance at herself in the mirror, the dress complimenting the curves of her body, the heels accentuating her calf muscles, the makeup making her look a little more mature and her hair pulled up into an eruption of curls.

She quickly grabbed her leather jacket and shrugged it on, making herself feel a little less exposed and a little more comfortable.

The boys were waiting for them in the hallway; Derek slouched against the wall with his arms crossed across his chest and Isaac standing nearby with his knife in hand, toying with the crystal blade and filing his nails. They were both dressed in their usual black outfits: tight jeans, leather jackets, but – this time – Isaac had pulled on a thick navy blue scarf that hid the scars left by runes and active Marks that covered his neck and collarbone.

As the girls stepped into the hallway, they turned their heads, their eyes growing wide as they looked at Allison.

Isaac was the first to recover. His face was lit with a mischievous smirk as he purred, “You look wonderful, but you’re missing something.”

He held out a sheathed dagger for her.

“I wouldn’t know the first thing about how to use it,” Allison objected.

“You’ll learn,” Isaac assured her, setting the curved metal of the ornate hilt in her hand. “It’s in your blood.”

Allison slowly drew back her hand, felling the weight of the dagger in her palm.

“I can give you a thigh strap if you want,” Lydia offered.

“No,” Allison replied hastily. “Thank you, but I’ll be fine.”

She shoved the dagger into her jacket pocket. She glanced up to see Isaac looking at her intently, his eyes squinted in thought. She opened her mouth to say something when reached forward.

“One last thing,” he said, pulling the sparkling pins out of her hair. The waves of black curls fell freely down her back and around her shoulders. His smile softened as he admired her and whispered, “Much better.”

 

 

They made their way down the abandoned streets of Beacon hills where no-one else dared to go at night. The glass of the streetlamps were clouded and muddy, the old bulbs strobing and flickering as they struggled to hold onto life. The surrounding buildings were decrepit: old workshops and industrial buildings, some in ruins – with buckling walls, crumpled bricks and streams of water coursing through the rubble like ravines - and others were just abandoned and tagged with crude sprawls of spray-paint.

The building they were looking for stood tall among the rest, old but not the least bit damaged.

Out the front stood rows of motorcycles, each personalised with fiery decals, skulls and bones, modified engines and glossy bodies of different styles and colours.

“Vampires,” Derek snarled.

“Vampires ride bikes?” Allison asked, astonished.

“Yeah,” Isaac muttered. “And they’re assholes too. If you touch a vampire’s bike, it’s as good as a death sentence.”

“Rumour has it some of them can fly,” Isaac said excitedly as he stepped over to one of the bikes, subtly pulling something out of his pocket.

“What are you doing?” Derek asked, eyeing Isaac suspiciously.

The younger boy bolted upright, shoving whatever was in his hand back into his pocket as he yelped, “Nothing.”

“Well then, hurry up,” Lydia said, walking towards the front door. “I didn’t get this dressed up to stand around and watch you mess around with a bunch of bikes parked in the gutter.”

“They are pretty to look at, you have to admit that” Derek said, following Lydia.

“So am I,” Lydia replied without a heartbeat of hesitation.

She stepped up to the door, her arm looped through Allison’s and Derek standing guard behind them while Isaac scurried up to join the others. Lydia knocked at the door with confidence, waiting until it was pulled open and a shaggy-looking teenager appeared. His eyes were like golden whiskey and his face was covered in moles that moved like stars across the sky as he looked the four of them up and down.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“We’re here for the party,” Lydia said. She began to pat herself down. “I swear I have my invitation here somewhere… I’m sure I do…”

The teenager rolled his eyes. “If I let you in, do you promise not to cause any trouble?”

“Of course,” Lydia said. “We’re here to have fun.”

The teenager stepped back, pushing open the door. The rings that adorned his fingers glittered, the gems catching the light and the metal bands gleaming as he ushered them inside.

They stepped through the front door when he stuck his hand out and stopped Isaac. He plucked something out of Isaac’s hand and twirled it between his fingers.

“As for this,” he said, glaring at Isaac as he shoved it in the pocket of the ‘hunter’s jean’s and growled, “Keep it in your pants.”

He swiftly turned and strutted up the small staircase and into the large room. The loft was furnished with minimal furniture: a large desk by the floor-to-roof windows that was set up as a bar, a couch in the lowered lounge room, a coffee table covered in empty bottles and cups, and a few decorations here and there. The polished concrete floors refracted the strobing lights of the party, bathing everything in fluorescent pink, sky blue, vibrant yellow and acid green. Masses of people were huddled in the space, dancing to the thundering base of the music.

The teenager who had greeted them disappeared into the crowd.

Derek gently pushed past Allison and started after him.

“Where are you going?” Lydia asked.

“I’m going to find Stilinski, and he’s the first person I’m asking,” Derek muttered as he passed them.

He stepped into the crowd, his clear eyes searching the crowd as he wove his way through the swarming bodies.

Suddenly, someone stepped in front of him, pushing a hand to his chest and guiding him out of the crowd.

“Hello, Bright Eyes,” the scruffy teenager said with a mischievous smile. “Looking for anyone in particular?”

Derek blinked, stunned.

“I’m a man of a particular taste,” the teenager said, sipping at the cocktail in his hand before taking a step closer to Derek.

Derek’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“Do you mean you like guys?” he asked before he could stop himself.

A soft smile lifted the corners of the teenager’s mouth as he looked Derek up and down, licking his soft pink lips and savouring the sight. 

“Yes,” he replied. He took a step closer to Derek, their bodies inching closer as he gnawed at his lip and purred, “Do you?”

Derek swallowed hard. He shoved the answer aside and said bluntly, “We’re looking for Stiles Stilinski?”

“What do you want?” the boy asked.

“His help,” Derek answered shortly.

“I might be able to help you,” the boy said, taking a step closer and craning his neck so that his face was inches from Derek’s. “If you were to pay me, that is.”

“Where is Stiles Stilinski?” Derek said, his composure unshifting.

The boy pouted and opened his mouth to say something when a booming voice interrupted them, “Stilinski!”

The boy took a step back, wheeling around so quickly that his drink sloshed about in his cup. His rugged expression turned into a fierce glare as he shouted back at the man, “What?!”

“ _Someone_ poured holy water into the gas tank of my bike!” the man bellowed. “It’s ruined! The pipes are all melted and destroyed.”

“Oh,” the teenager replied with a pout, his voice laced with sarcasm as he added, “How dreadful.”

“I want to know who did it!”

“I have no idea who sabotaged your bike,” he replied. “But if you stop kicking up a fuss like a pathetic child and leave now, I will have someone deliver your precious bike to you so you can begin repairs. So, if you’re done with your hissy fit, bye-bye.”

The boy waved to him, swiftly turning his back to the vampire.

The man grabbed a nearby empty bottle and hurled it at the boy.

It struck the nearby pillar, shattering and raining over him like glittering crystals.

All emotion drained from his face, his eyes darkening as he turned around again. The golden depths shifted to a dark brown before splitting like a cat’s pupils, the irises glittering gold. He raised his hand, blue flamed engulfing his fingers as he raised his index finger and pointed at the vampire.

He began to cough, gag and splutter, grasping at his throat as if someone was holding him in a vice grip. His mouth moved around words but no sound came out.

Stiles flicked his finger and the man was sent flying out the door, tumbling down the stairs and back out into the street. The doors slammed shut behind him and everyone fell silent.

The boy turned around, his eyes their normal golden colour as he swung his arms open and shouted, “Let the party rage on.”

The music started playing again and everyone returned to their dancing, grinding and drinking.

“You,” Derek said, stunned. The boy turned to look at him, his malice mood lightening and his eyes swirling like golden liquor. “You are Stiles Stilinski?”

Stiles smirked and bowed mockingly. “At your service.”

“That was impressive,” Isaac muttered in admiration as he joined Derek.

“Stiles,” Allison said, ignoring the others and racing up to the boy’s side. “We need your help.”

He let out a pensive sigh, not one that was dramatic but one that seemed like what was about to happen was a painful decision for him to make.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Allison, Bright Eyes, and whoever you are--” he pointed at Isaac. “Follow me. Copper Curls, you look like you came to have fun; you can stay down here.”

“Thank you,” Lydia said as they passed.

Stiles led them up a small fleet of stairs and into an expansive room that was shut off from the party below. The room was divided into several sections: a bedroom with a large bed, a lounge room with chairs, tables, a desk full of notes and books and bookshelves along the walls, and a small kitchenette tucked away in the corner.

“You know, it was me who put the holy water in the fuel tank,” Isaac confessed.

“I know,” Stiles said nonchalantly. “You’re a vindictive little bastard, aren’t you?”

“It’s a nice party,” Allison said, breaking the tense silence between them as they stepped into Stiles’ room. “Is it in honour of anything?”

“My cat’s birthday,” he chirped.

Allison looked stunned for a second before she glanced around. “Where’s your cat?”

Stiles shrugged, his expression growing solemn as he said, “I don’t know. He ran away.”

He slumped down on the large couch, laying back against the pile of cushions as he asked, “What is it exactly that you want?”

“I need your help,” Allison confessed. “My parents were Shadowhunters but – for some reason – they kept this world from me, I don’t know why?”

“Ask your father,” Stiles said, sipping at his cocktail.

“I can’t,” Allison muttered, her chest aching. “He’s been taken by Gerard.”

“I don’t know anyone by that name,” Stiles said, his voice stretched as if he were becoming inpatient. “I’m sorry for your tragic circumstances, but I fail to see what any of this has to do with me. If you could just tell me--”

“She can’t tell you,” Derek interrupted. “Because she doesn’t remember; someone erased her memories. She dove into her subconscious and came back with two words. Care to guess what they were?”

Stiles met his gaze, smirking at Derek’s bravado. He set his cocktail down and sat upright, spinning the rings about on his fingers as he said. “I was proud of the work I did even thought I didn’t approve of it. I made sure that any glimpses of our world that you may of caught could have been dismissed as feverish hallucinations or a twisted mortal dream. That’s the way he wanted it.”

“Who?” Allison asked.

“Your father.”

“My _father_ did this to me?” Allison gasped. “No… No, he wouldn’t… Why?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles said. “It’s not my job to ask questions, I just do what I am paid to do… within the limits of the Covenant.” He rose from his seat, wondering to the large window where he stopped and wistfully stared into the night. “You were about eight-years-old when you first came here. All you wanted to do was pet my cat. You didn’t seem to know what was about to happen, or – if you did – you didn’t care. Your father told me he was a Shadowhunter and his scars proved it. He told me he wanted you to be blind to our world. I told him that crippling that part of your mind might harm you, cause damage that would be unrepairable, but he didn’t care; he needed you to forget. So I put a block in your mind and, around this time every year, your father returned to me so I could repair any fissures in the block.”

“Can you take the block out of my mind?” Allison said desperately.

“No,” Stiles confessed. “Think of it as a brick wall. I put the foundations down years ago and every year I come back to fill in the mortar and patch up the plaster. If I were to break that wall, I could damage what is behind it.”

“High warlock, shameless flirt, and a builder,” Isaac muttered, his vice laced with acidic sarcasm. “What a man.”

“What is his purpose?” Stiles asked, shooting a glare at Isaac. “Aside from the persistent negativity and _that scarf_.”

Isaac smirked, his face full of pride.

“Can you at least try and be helpful?” Stiles asked.

“For half of my childhood, I was locked in a freezer, so being helpful is kind of a new thing for me.”

“Oh, poor you,” Stiles seethed. “We’ve all had tragic childhoods, get over it. My father thought I was a disgrace. He wanted me dead so my mother dropped me on the doorstep of a mundane family. As I grew up, they thought I was insane; a hell spawn. My adoptive-mother tried to drown me in a lake and, when that didn’t work, they locked me away in a mental asylum and left me there for dead. I spent every night chained to a bed while my veins were filled with a repulsive concoction of medications and sedatives. And I spent every day locked away in solitude, beaten within an inch of my life, and abused to the point they tried to tear my mind and my spirit apart, trying to leave me as nothing but a broken, empty husk.”

The room fell silent, all eyes growing wide with shock.

“So, yes, you had a bad childhood. Haven’t we all?” Stiles said without any change in his composure. “So, if you’re going to be here, the least you can do is sit down and shut up.”

Stiles turned back to Allison, his face softening as he spoke softly, “The spell will wear off with time, that why you had to come back to me every year. With time, your memories will come back.”

“Is there a way to speed it up?” Allison asked.

“There might be,” Stiles said thoughtfully. He turned swiftly and strutted over to a large bookshelf. He ran his fingers across the worn-soft leather bound spines of the lovingly-read books until he found the one he wanted. He pulled it from the shelf and shuffled through the pages. He brought the book over to Allison, crouching before her and wedging his finger between the pages.

She looked down at it, holding it in her lap. The pages were thin and frail like the fading flesh of an autumn leaf and thumbed smooth by reading.

“The Grey Book,” Derek gasped. “The Greymire Book, in it is every run that the Angel Raziel ever wrote. There aren’t many copies because each has to be specially made; some of the runes are so powerful that they burn through regular pages.”

“Thank you for the history lesson, Derek,” Isaac muttered. “You can shut up now.”

“As can you,” Stiles growled, his fierce glare locked on Isaac. His gaze softened as he looked at Isaac and said, “When I open this book, I want you to study the page; look at it until you feel something change in your mind.”

Allison nodded.

Stiles opened the page and Allison lowered her gaze to look at it.

On the parchment was a black rune. Allison let her mind relax as she realised she could read it. The word came to her like a ghostly whisper: _Remember_.

Her senses were drowned as he remembered the sweet petrichor that was released from the wet earth beneath the playground. She sat on the swings, her father pushing her. She had been playing for so long that she was starting to grow tired.

Finally, she climbed off the swings, her little yellow boots dropping into the puddle beneath her with a loud splash. She stumbled over to her father, reaching up for him with her tiny hands as he heavy eyes began to fall shut. He smiled and lifted her into his arm, holding her close as she fell asleep in his embrace.

When she opened her eyes, they were tired and heavy. The wet strands of her hair were plastered to the side of her face as she bounced slightly on her father’s shoulder. She looked up at the young man following them.

He wore a black leather jacket and black jeans, the collar of the cotton shirt beneath dipped down enough to show the black swirls of lines that covered his olive skin. The scruff of a beard shadowed his square jaw and his thick black hair was cropped short but tousled about by the crisp winter wind. He looked the same age as her dad, his pale blue eyes the colour of ice and his face lit with a kind smile as she met his gaze. He waved at her.

She smiled back, showing off what few teeth had broken through her gums.

Chris seemed to notice she had stirred, craning his neck to look at her before turning around to follow her gaze.

“Robert,” Chris said, his voice full of surprise and happiness. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see how my _parabati_ was,” Robert replied. He looked at Allison and smiled. “She’s beautiful. Probably because she doesn’t get her looks from you.”

Chris laughed, adjusting his hold on Allison so she could look at Robert too.

“Allison,” her dad said softly. “This is daddy’s friend, Robert. Say hi.”

Allison babbled something along the lines of ‘Hello’ and hid her blushing face in Chris’ shoulder.

Robert chuckled.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Allison,” he said. “Your daddy is a good man, do you know that?”

Chris was about to object when something cut his words short.

She looked at Robert, at the gleaming crystal blade that impaled his chest, at the smears of blood that coated the sword, at the pain, shock and rage in his eyes. She remembered how Robert pulled himself off of the blade, shoving Chris away and yelling for him to run as he drew his own weapon and fought back.

Chris held her tight as he ran through the park, across the busy streets and into the raging storm. Suddenly he fell short. Allison looked up at his face. His eyes were wide, his composure fractured as a pained expression covered his face. He looked as if someone had stabbed him, as if some part of him had been hurt.

“Allison.”

She jolted back to consciousness, realising that everyone in the room was staring at her. Her throat was sore, her mouth dry and hot tears stinging her eyes.

Isaac was by her side, grabbing her shoulders and staring at her with shimmering sapphire eyes that were full of worry.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

Allison nodded slowly.

“Do you remember something?” Derek asked.

She looked at him, her lips quivering.

She couldn’t say it. How could you possibly say ‘I saw your father die’?

She shook her head. Finally finding her voice, she said, disheartened, “I don’t know where my father or the Cup is.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Stiles said. “I’ve been through your memories and there is nothing there about the Mortal Cup.”

“Why didn’t you tell us that?” Isaac snapped.

“Because you never told me _that_ was what you were looking for,” Stiles countered. “I’m a warlock, not a mind reader, kid. And while we’re on the subject, I want to make it perfectly clear that I want nothing to do with the Cup or Gerard.”

“I thought you said you didn’t know Gerard,” Derek said, eyeing Stiles suspiciously.

“I do, I just don’t want to,” Stiles admitted. He rose to his feet and strolled across the room, pulling open the door that lead to the stairwell. “Now, if we’re done here, please move it along. The only person allowed to canoodle in my room is myself.”

They nodded, each rising to their feet and making their way out the door.

Stiles caught Derek’s hand as he left the room. “You know, there’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Derek didn’t pull back.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lied.

Stiles’ smirk fell to a kind smile as he said, “You will.”

 

 

Lydia stood among the crowd, her eyes darting about the moving figures as she joined in. She moved her body with a seductive grace.

Something caught her eye, a young girl dressed in a strapless dress that stood out among the crowd. Her eyes went wide and a mix of rage and fear filled her veins. She pulled away from her dance partner and rushed over to her side. She grabbed the girl’s arm, ignoring her pained yelp as she tightened her grip.

“What in the name of the Angel are you doing here? You know what? I don’t want to hear it. We’re leaving. Now.”

She began to drag her towards the exit.

“I just got here,” Cora objected.

“And if your brother sees you he _will kill everyone_ ,” Lydia hissed, tightening her grip on Cora’s arm and dragging her towards the large doors.

Allison and Isaac caught them before they left, looking at Cora with that same expression of shock and rage.

“Tell Derek I’ve left,” Lydia said shortly, her voice full of anger. “But, for the sake of all our lives, don’t mention _she_ was here.”

They nodded and watched her leave, Cora stumbling on the heels she was not used to wearing as Lydia dragged her downstairs.

“Where’s Lydia?” a gruff voice asked, making them jump.

“She started home,” Allison said, watching as Isaac nodded in agreement, unable to lie to Derek.

Derek glanced over his shoulder and back towards the staircase that lead up to Stiles’ room. He looked as if his clear aventurine eyes were clouded in thought, as if someone had caught him out in a lie or told him that they knew one of his darkest secrets.

He turned back to Isaac and Allison and said, “We should probably head back to the Institute too.”

A piercing whistle split the air, the music dying away to silence as everyone turned to look at the host who stood on their staircase.

“Party’s over,” Stiles said firmly. “Everyone go home.”

The crowd moaned and muttered but, regardless, began to make their way towards the large doors and filter out into the street, trudging through the rain and into the night.

One figure came stumbling back through the crowd, elbowing aside people and staggering against the tide. She broke free of the crowd, falling into Derek’s arms.

“Lydia?” he gasped, gently guiding her aside and sitting her down on one of the nearest seats.

Her dress was torn, streams of blood seeping into the fabric. Her rosy pink lips were cracked and bleeding and a large gash had been taken out of her head. Her bright green eyes were unfocused and full of fear as she swayed back and forth.

Derek held her upright, his voice strained with worry as he asked, “What happened?”

“They took her?” Lydia rasped.

“Who?” Derek whispered.

“The vampires… they took Cora.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let the sterek roll in!


	7. Motel California

Derek looked as if someone had slammed his chest with a baseball bat. His lips quivered around words but the air failed to reach his lung and his voice failed to make a sound.

“What do you mean the vampires took Cora?” Derek gasped.

“She snuck out to come to the party,” Lydia said, cupping her head in pain. Ribbons of crimson blood streamed through her fingers. “I tried to get her out of here before you noticed but we were cornered outside but vampires… I tried to fight them off, but there was too many for me to handle alone. They knocked me down, grabbed Cora, and took off with her.”

“Give me your arm,” Isaac said softly, reaching forward to take a hold of her wrist. He reached into his back pocket and drew out his stele, drawing a healing rune into the pale flesh of Lydia’s arm. It glowed red for a moment before darkening to a solid black line.

The smaller of Lydia’s wounds began to heal.

Once she was able to sit upright on her own, Derek rose to his feet and raced over to Stiles’ side, the high warlock standing nearby and watching on with concern.

“Where are they?” Derek asked, his voice oddly calm and low.

Stiles winced.

“You’re the high warlock, you know where they are,” Derek insisted. He drew in a deep breath and exhaled heavily, calming himself before he softly said, “I know that divulging this information comes at a risk for you; your business and security relies on the trust you have with other Downworlders, but they’ve broken the Accords; they’ve taken and innocent girl, they’ve taken my _sister_ – my _little_ sister. Please… I can’t lose her… I need your help.”

Stiles bit into his lip. His expression was one of pain as he sighed and whispered, “Motel California, just off of the highway out of town.”

Derek’s shoulders dropped with relief as he said, “Thank you.”

“I’m coming too,” Lydia insisted, back on her feet.

“You are in no condition to fight,” Derek objected. “You are to go back to the Institute—Allison will go with you.

“Oh no,” Lydia growled. “I am not sitting this out. I’m getting even.”

“We need weapons,” Isaac announced.

Derek turned to Stiles once again. “Where’s the nearest sacred grounds?”

“Saint Mary’s church,” Stiles replied. “Two blocks over.”

The others nodded, hurrying towards the door. Derek hesitated in the doorway, turning back to look at Stiles. His eyes sparkled with deep gratitude as he whispered, “Thank you.”

 

 

The church was large and intimidating, it’s gothic structure and faded grey bricks looming over them. The arched windows reflected the silver slivers of moonlike like the reflection of a pool. The yard was surrounded by a barrier of concrete and iron fencing that Isaac and Derek climbed over with ease.

Lydia rolled her eyes dramatically and shoved open the front gates.

The boys looked at her, Isaac smiling like an idiot and Derek blushing slightly at his stupidity.

Lydia strutted ahead, taking Isaac’s stele from his grasp and drawing a rune onto the large oak door of the church. She unlocked it and stepped inside, the others following in silence. She stopped before the alter, bowing her head for a moment as she quietly said, “In the name of the Clave, I ask that we entry to this holy place, in the name of the Battle That Never Ends, I ask that we use your weapons, and in the name of the Angel Razaiel I ask that you bless us on our mission against darkness.”

The others bowed their head respectfully.

After a moment, Allison stepped forward to the pew. She brushed her hand over the carved wooden floor and dusted away the concealing glamour to reveal a rune engraved in the wood and filled with glittering opal.

Allison took a step closer and read the rune: ‘Nephilim’.

Lydia traced it with the stele, fitting her fingers in the gaps and pulling the wooden board aside. Beneath it was a store of crystal-like weapons: swords, whips, axes, bows and arrows.

“There are weapons in a church?” Allison asked, stunned.

“Every religion believes in our world: Christianity’s Satan and his demons, Greek daemons, Persian _daveas_ , Hindu _asuras_ , Japanese _oni_ ,” Lydia explained. “No matter the interpretations, every place of worship and buildings on sacred ground are prepared to aid us in battle.”

“Derek,” she called, tossing him the bow, a quiver of arrows and an axe.

“Many believe that their god sent the Nephilim to save everyone,” Derek said as he shrugged the quiver and bow over his shadow, fitting a smooth leather glove over his hand and standing by the exit while he waited for the others. “Whether there’s a god or divine force or not, we’re here alone. We do our job, it’s as simple as that.”

“ _Nous protégeons ceux qui ne peuvent pas se protéger eux-mêmes_ ,” Allison quoted. “We protect those who cannot protect themselves.”

Derek nodded, the hint of a smile playing on his lips as he said, “You learn fast.”

“Isaac.” Lydia tossed him a rolled-up piece of cloth that looked like a chef’s roll of knives or an artist’s bag of brushes. He rolled them out over the nearby pew, pulling a few of the gleaming daggers from the pouches and sliding them into his belt before turning back to Lydia.

In the time the boys took to get ready, she had grabbed a change of clothes – a pair of jeans, black boots and a shirt – and dressed herself. She grabbed some plated armour, covering up any exposed skin and sheathing her weapons – crystal daggers, vials of holy water, silver throwing blades, and several others that were concealed in her clothes. She tossed Isaac another two swords, using the toe of her boot to push the wooden board back into place.

The dust settled and the rune disappeared.

“Let’s go,” she said, strutting down the aisle of the church and out into the night.

Allison reached into her pocket, feeling the cool hilt of the dagger Isaac had given her. She wasn’t nearly as prepared as the others were, but she had something. She didn’t know how to fight but at least she had the option to defend herself.

She followed the others out into the street.

“It’s not far to the motel,” Derek announced, leading the way down the abandoned streets and towards the highway out of town.

It didn’t take long for them to reach their destination, standing by the edge of the road and staring at the gaudy building. The walls were painted a mustard yellow and the doors were painted blood red and boarded up with withering wooden planks. The bright neon MOTEL light that stood out was falling off its fixtures, the L flipped upside down, the T sitting crooked and the M fallen onto the rooftop. The shutters were closed and shut off with bricks, plaster and wooden boards.

“This place looks like a shit hole,” Isaac muttered.

Derek took a step forward and Isaac and Lydia pounced on him, stopping him in his tacks.

“If you go barging in there, they’re not going to hesitate to kill Cora,” Lydia pointed out.

“My sister is in there,” Derek growled, a boiling rage flooding his veins. “What do you suggest I do?”

Isaac looked around. Something caught his attention, his deep blue eyes glittering with joy as he grinned and said, “I have an idea.”

 

 

“Derek!” Cora screamed, thrashing about as the cold, clammy hands of the vampires grabbed at her, clawing at her dress, scratching her flesh to leave angry red marks or draw blood, and grasping her arms and legs to hold her still before the others.

She knew no-one could hear her, but she cried to the heavens above and prayed that – somehow – her brother would hear her, save her.

Her voice scratched at her throat, tears streaming her face.

“Look at her,” one vampire hissed. “A Nephilim that cries… I like that.”

“No,” she sobbed, kicking out at him.

The vampire hissed, baring his needle-sharp fangs as the heel of Cora’s shoe hit his shins. His blood-red eyes flared as he lunged at her.

Cora screamed, but nothing happened. She slowly opened her eyes, noticing that the vampire had frozen in his tracks, his head cocked to the side like a dog listening to a strange sound. She heard it: the rumbling engine of a revving motorcycle.

The vampire straightened and stormed outside. He burst through the front door of the hotel, shattering the thick wooden boards that held it shut and ran into the parking lot.

In the centre of the lot, someone sat atop his bike, spinning it in circles and burning the rubber against the rough concrete. Plumes of smoke rose from the screeching wheels as the driver pulled to a stop, aiming the bike at the vampire and revving the engine.

The vampire snarled and sprinted forward, grabbing the handlebar and growling, “Get off my bike.”

The driver sat back and pulled the black helmet off his head. The bright red light of the motel sign lit his youthful face, his ocean-blue eyes darkening like a storm as the neon light cast shadows across his face. A wicked smirk lifted the corners of his lips as he set the helmet down, the cuffs of his jacket riding up just enough to reveal the thick black lines.

With one swift motion, the boy pranced onto the bike, flipped over the vampire and sprinted into the motel, his body nothing but a blur in the dark night.

He turned around and ran into the motel, chasing the fleeting shadow of the boy. He pulled up to an abrupt halt, feeling the sharp edge of a blade pressed to his throat.

“Hello, sweetheart,” a girl whispered. “Remember me?”

 

 

“Lydia,” Derek said warningly.

The girl looked as if she was ready to slit the vampire’s throat. She took a moment to compose herself; they were here for Cora, not for revenge. She pulled the blade closer to the vampire’s throat and asked, “Where’s the girl you took?”

“Go to hell,” the vampire hissed.

Lydia pulled the blade closer, breaking the skin just enough to make the man cry out. A ribbon of black blood streamed down his pale throat.

All tenderness dropped from Lydia’s voice, her jade eyes darkening like the murky depths of the sea as she growled, “Where is she?”

The vampire bit into his lip, fighting back his screams of pain.

Derek opened his mouth, ready to shout, when something caught his attention, the trailing echo of someone screaming his name. He wheeled around and called back, “Cora!”

“Derek, wait,” Isaac said, reaching for the older boy, but it was too late; Derek had hurdled the fallen bricks of the hole in the wall and was sprinting through the connecting rooms.

Isaac and Allison followed while Lydia spun the vampire and slammed her fist into his throat hard enough that he stumbled backwards and collapsed to the ground, unconscious. She followed the others, quickly catching up to them.

Derek stood in the centre of a room, looking from side to side.

“I can’t hear her,” he whispered, his voice laced with fear. “I can’t hear her.”

Lydia drew her dagger, tightening his grip on her throwing knife and hurling it through the air. It hit a target with a loud thud and the sickening sound of tearing flesh.

The man tumbled backwards before steadying himself and pulling the blade from his chest. He held it before his eyes, admiring the smears of black blood that covered the blade while he mused, “You missed.”

“You moved,” Lydia replied. “That’s not fair.”

“Where’s my sister?” Derek growled, an arrow notched in his bow and his hand twitching to fire it.

A chill ran up Allison’s spine as she turned to look at their surroundings.

The rooms were larger than she had first thought, they were on the bottom floor and the walls and ceilings had been caved in to make a larger area, to house more vampires. Among the darkness, a nearly a hundred ghostly-white faces stared down at them.

Allison gently tugged at Isaac’s sleeve.

He turned to look at what she was seeing. “Derek.”

Lydia pounced forward, grabbing the man in front of her – the one she had stabbed – and pulling his arm behind his back while pressing her blade to his throat.

“Is this who you’re looking for?” one of the vampires asked, pushing through the masses with Cora in his arms, her hands tied behind her back and one of his hands clamped tightly around her mouth – her tears spilling over his clammy white fingers – while his other hand was held at her throat, nails leaving angry red marks on her throat.

Derek raised his bow and pulled the string taut.

“Who do you think can move faster, Nephilim?” the vampire holding Cora asked. “You and your little arrow or me and your sister’s head?”

Derek’s composure remained strong and unwavering, his cold glare fixed on his target and his hands still.

It was Lydia who moved first. She pulled the blade closer to the captive vampire’s throat, watching as the others flinched and gasped in horror.

“I propose a trade,” Allison said, her voice falling past her lips before she could stop herself.

All eyes fell on her.

Isaac was shocked, his brow furrowed in confusion as he looked at her.

“Obviously, we have someone of value to you,” she said, stepping forward and gesturing towards the man in Lydia’s grasp. “And you have a friend of ours. If you let her go now, we will release your friend and leave. No-one has to get hurt, no blood has to be spilt.”

“You trespassed on our land,” one vampire shouted.

“You broke the Accords by taking an innocent, unarmed child,” Derek shouted back.

“Please,” Allison said, raising her voice enough to cut in. “We don’t have to fight. Just let her go.”

The man considered it for a moment then pulled his hand away from Cora’s mouth. He sliced through her restraints and shoved her forward.

She ran into her brother’s arm, Derek lowering his bow and welcoming his sister into the comfort and security of his hold. He felt her tears soak into his shirt as her wrapped and arm around her, tightening his grip on his axe as he backed up towards the others.

When Derek and Cora were securely surrounded, Cora pulled the knife away from the vampire’s throat and gently pushed him towards the others.

“Boss?” the vampire who had been holding Cora said, hurrying over to the released vampire’s side and checking his blood-soaked chest and torn shirt.

The released vampire turned around, glaring at them with crimson eyes as he hissed, “Kill them.”

“Allison, take her,” Derek said, guiding his sister into Allison’s arms.

Allison held her close, digging into her pocket and unsheathing her dagger while the others circled around her, brandishing the gleaming crystal weapons and moving with a remarkable speed and precision.

There was a flurry of movements, the light catching the crystal blades and leaving trails of light like glowing lights that move through the dark air.

“Get to the door,” Isaac shouted over the screeching vampires, ducking under a slashing hand and bringing his blade up in an upward movement that tore open the vampire’s chest.

Allison held the younger girl upright as they raced back through the rubble, crumbled bricks and toppled rooms as they hurried back out the way they had come in.

A vampire caught the back of Allison’s leather jacket. She wheeled around and slammed the thick heel of her boot into the creature’s gut. They wheezed and tumbled backwards, knocking over one of their comrades and buying the girls enough time to run a few more meters before another vampire leapt in front of them.

Cora screamed and Allison moved, hunching over her to use her body to shield her.

She felt cool liquid splash over her bare skin and heard the vampire screech and wheel back, clawing at his own flesh.

She glanced over her shoulder, catching sight of Lydia for a moment.

“Come on,” Allison whispered, pulling Cora towards the exit.

She pulled up to a halt, a wave of vampires blocking their path, their blood-red eyes focused on the girls.

Allison looked around, quickly coming up with a different idea.

“The stairs,” she called to Cora, grabbing her hand and running towards the old wooden stairs that used to lead out of the reception area and up to the second storey. Just as they reached the bottom step, the walls caved in with a thundering boom as blurred figures tore into the building.

Allison pulled Cora close, shielding her from the raining debris as plumes of dust and chunks of plaster filled the air.

From somewhere among the masses of bodies, Allison heard a vampire screech, “Moon Children!”

“Werewolves,” Cora gasped.

“Who’s side are they on?” Allison asked.

“Ours,” Cora muttered. “I think.”

“Move! Up!” Derek shouted as he, Lydia and Isaac caught up to them. “Up!”

He grabbed his sister’s hand and hurried up the stairs, Lydia following and Isaac setting his hand between Allison’s shoulder blades to guide her up.

They burst out onto the landing of the second storey, looking down over the railing. They could have made the jump, if there wasn’t a swarm of vampires and werewolves tearing into each other below them.

“Up,” Derek said. “There’s a fire escape intact over there.”

He took the lead and the others followed, climbing the nearest fire escape and scurrying across the flat roof to the only fire escape that was completely intact. As soon as they reached the top of the landing – their boots making the rusty metal groan and rumble – an ear-piercing screech spit the air. Something grabbed Allison’s ankle. The next thing she knew, she was hurled backwards; over the edge of the building.

She gasped, but her scream fell short of her lips. Her body felt weightless, her limbs drifting as if she were floating on water. The wind whipped her hair about, her wide eyes falling shut as she dreaded the impact that was to come. As she shut her eyes, she saw a dark blur rush towards her, a comforting warmth encasing her as she plunged towards the ground.

She squeezed her eyes shut, letting herself disappear into the darkness.

 

 

“Allison,” a familiar voice called, full of fear and worry. “Allison.”

She slowly blinked her eyes open, staring up at the familiar depths of chocolate brown eyes, his tousled mess of dark hair, his rich olive skin lit by the golden glow of morning light, and the soft voice that would comfort her when she woke up from nightmares during sleepovers.

“Scott?” she rasped.

He let out a sigh of relief.

“Allison!” Isaac cried as he sprinted over to the girl’s side. He dropped to his knees by Allison, stele in hand.

“Get away from her!” Scott howled, slapping aside Isaac’s hands.

“I’m trying to help her,” Isaac growled.

“She doesn’t need your help,” Scott retorted.

Isaac looked down at Allison’s wrist, noticing that the healing rune had risen to the surface. He stared at the black mark in shock.

“I said back off,” Scott shouted, shoving Isaac away.

The Shadowhunter stumbled backwards, giving them enough room for Scott to help Allison to her feet.

“Scott,” she whispered. “What are you doing here?”

“Come on,” he said softly. “We’re going home.”

“She’s not going anywhere with you,” Derek growled.

“Wait,” Allison muttered, gently shoving herself away from Scott. She stumbled back on her heels, feeling a little lightheaded as she looked at Scott. “You can see them?”

“Of course I can see them,” Scott replied.

“But you couldn’t at the nightclub?”

Scott froze, falling silent as he dropped his gaze.

His silence spoke volumes.

Allison drew in a deep breath, fighting off her tears. “You lied to me?”

“I had to,” Scott argued. “Your father made me promise.”

Allison held up her hand to silence him, her other hand was clamped over her mouth as she fought off her rising wave of nausea. She staggered backwards and stumbled towards the curb.

“Allison,” Scott whispered.

“No,” Allison snapped. “You either,” she said, pointing at Isaac.

Hot, heavy tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision and streaking the lights as she ran towards the curb. Her legs tumbled beneath her as she struggled to stay upright on the heels of her boots.

“Lydia,” Derek said.

She nodded and followed Allison. She reached her just in time to stop her hitting the curb. She held Allison upright, pulling her into her arms and whispering to her as her soft tears soaked the blood-smeared fabric Lydia’s shirt.

“I know, I know,” Lydia whispered.

“He lied to me,” Allison sobbed. “He’s my best friend and he lied to me.”

Lydia held her close. “I’m not going to say it’s okay, because it’s not.”

“How do you do it?” Allison asked, standing upright on her own two feet but not breaking away from Lydia’s comforting hold.

“Shadowhunters are expected to compartmentalised their emotions,” Lydia explained. “But it doesn’t always work.”

Allison thought of Derek’s steely composure and how it had shattered in a second when he heard Cora was in danger; just like how her father’s composure had broken that night, the fear in his voice as he said goodbye to her.

She drew in a deep breath, wiping her hands across her cheeks to brush away her tears. Her trembling hands steadied and she calmed herself. She nodded to Lydia and stormed back over to Scott.

“I want answers,” she demanded. “And if you hold anything back, I’m turning you over to them.” She pointed at the cluster of Shadowhunters.

Scott sighed. He held out his hand, his pinky finger extended.

Isaac flinched, his grip on his sword hilt tightening as he readied himself for a fight but Allison stepped forward, raising her hand and hooking her finger with Scott’s.

“My name is Scott McCall. Three years ago, I was bitten by a werewolf and became one of them,” he confessed. “When you and your father moved here, we became friends. From the second we met, he knew what I was. He told me what he was and he made me promise to keep you away from this world, to lie to you if I had to. I never wanted to, but he made me promise to keep you safe, to keep you oblivious.”

Allison’s expression didn’t waver. “What was he so afraid of?”

“I don’t know,” Scott said.

Allison pulled her hand back. “Isaac, he’s all yours.”

“Allison, I mean it!”

“No, you’re lying!” she shouted. “I know you’re lying. My dad called me the night he disappeared. He said I could trust you. He said to tell you that someone had found him; ‘he’ had found him. You know something and you’re not tell me.”

“He found him?” Scott repeated.

“Speak up, lycanthrope,” Isaac growled, tightening his grip on his sword. “Who was he hiding from? Who found him?”

“Gerard.”


	8. Broken Hearts

They made their way back to the Institute; covered in glamour to appear as a repulsive, run-down church. The brickwork was covered in moss and torn apart, the walls caved in and the gardens full of rubbish and the skeletons of withering trees. It looked like a place full of junkies and ghosts. But when you strip away the glamour, it was a wonderful building: standing tall among the surrounding buildings with wonderful architecture, gleaming glass windows and neat, lush greenery that framed the small path that led up to the large oak doors.

Derek led the way, Cora in his arms. Lydia followed him, Isaac walking with Allison behind her and Scott trailing behind her.

Derek pushed open the door and ushered everyone inside.

Scott hesitated. “Am I allowed…?”

Derek nodded. “You are a person of our world seeking refuge, you can claim sanctuary, but – I warn you – if you step out of line, I will tear you apart myself.”

“Noted,” Scott said as he stepped inside.

“Where have you lot been?” a young woman called, stalking down the hallway towards them.

“Laura!” Cora shrieked, racing over to the young woman’s side.

A smile broke Derek’s cold expression as he too picked up his heels and ran to her.

She bundled the both of them up in her arms, chuckling as she pressed kisses to their cheeks and said hello back. After a moment, she set them back on their feet, freezing when she saw the short, black strapless dress that Cora wore. “And what in the name of the Angel are you wearing?”

“I’ll explain later,” Derek vouched. He turned to Cora. “You. Go to your room and get yourself cleaned up.”

Cora nodded, bowing her head shamefully as she walked down the hallway.

“Derek,” Laura said lowly, her voice firm and threatening. “What happened?”

For a moment Allison was shocked to see the member of the team that she had seen as the strongest was reduced to a broken child. “We went to Stiles’ party to get answers and I told Cora she couldn’t come. She didn’t listen and when Lydia tried to get her out of there, they were attacked by vampires. She was taken and we went to get her back.”

“Okay,” Laura said, taking it all in. “And who are these two?”

“This is Allison,” Isaac spoke up. “She’s one of us; one of the Clave. Her father was taken by Gerard and we’re trying to help her. This guy is her friend.”

“Scott,” the boy introduced himself. “I’m a werewolf. Christopher Argent asked me to look after Allison, so that’s why I’m here – not to start anything.”

Laura nodded and smiled at them. “Well, you are welcome here. If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to ask. Now, you--” She turned to face Derek. “I think Cora needs you right now.”

Derek nodded, falling silent and bowing his head. The pain had returned; that pain and tension that had flooded his expression when he feared for Cora. Allison knew why; it had dawned on him how close he had come to losing his little sister.

Laura pressed a kiss to his forehead and gently ushered him down the hallway. “I’ll check on you two in a minute.”

"What are you doing back?" Lydia asked. "I thought Talia wanted you to escort her to the Accords?"

"Mum didn't want me to escort her, she wanted me to escort--”

"Laura!" A man bellowed from somewhere down the halls.

All sweetness drained from Laura's features, a brewing rage darkening her eyes and pulling down the corners of her mouth as she finished, "-him."

"Who's that?" Allison asked.

"The bane of my existence," Laura seethed.

Isaac leant in close and whisperer, "Her uncle."

"What do you want, Peter?" Laura called.

The man rounded the corner. He had light brown hair, sleeked back to reveal his firm expression and surprisingly youthful face. There was no mistaking he was a Shadowhunter; he wore black clothes and a leather jacket, his bright blue eyes were darkened to reveal his sardonic, manipulative, sociopathic nature.

"Is that brother of yours back yet? I want a sparring partner." He glanced up, his eyes falling on Scott. His gaze darkened with a predatory glint as he muttered, "Nevermind."

He pulled his stele from his back pocket and, without looking, singlehandedly drew runes into his forearm that Allison recognised as ‘Speed’ and ‘Agility’.

He shoved his stele back in his pocket and drew out a seraph blade. He leapt forward, blurring into nothing.

Laura moved swiftly, jerking her elbow to the side. The bone slammed into her uncle's chest and knocked him aside. He hit the wall with a solid thud, falling to the ground with a grunt. He bounced back to his feet swiftly, quickly recovering.

Laura had her seraph blade drawn in a second, ready to fight her uncle.

"He's a Downworlder," the man growled.

"He's a guest," Laura corrected. 

Peter glared at Scott, directing his gaze past him and squinting at Isaac as the boy readied his sword.

"If you want to kill the 'wolf then go ahead," Laura said coldly with a tone that suggested she was testing him. "I'd love to see what Mum does with your corpse."

Peter lowered his blade, muttering a flurry of obscenities under his breath before turning around and leaving.

“As I was saying,” Laura said softly, turning to face the others. “Make yourselves comfortable. Lydia? Would you mind setting our guests up while I go deal with my brother and sister?”

Lydia nodded.

“Thank you,” Laura said with a smile. “There’s breakfast in the kitchen.”

 

 

Derek gently knocked at the door to Cora’s bedroom. His sister made a weak noise form inside and he gently pushed open the door. He stepped inside, looking at Cora who was curled up on her bed.

“Hey,” he whispered, shutting the door behind himself and stepping over to the bed. “Are you okay?”

Cora shook her head.

He heard her sniff back her tears, her face dampened by streams of tears that glistened in the light that seeped through the cracks in the curtain.

He crawled onto the bed, laying down next to her.

"I'm not mad," Derek whispered. "I'm just... I came close to losing you today, Cora, and that - honestly - terrifies me... I love you, and I don't ever want to lose you."

He gently stroked the mess of brown hair that was thrown across the pillows. She and Laura looked like their mother: olive skin, dark eyes and brown hair. And, like Talia, they had learnt to cry where no-one would see them.

Cora's shoulders were trembling as she held back her soft sobs.

"I love you, Cora," Derek repeated.

"I'm sorry," Cora muttered.

"I know," Derek replied. "And, I promise, the day you turn sixteen, I'll take you to every Downworlder party--”

"No," Cora whimpered. "I don't want to... I don't want to."

"Okay," Derek said thoughtfully. "We'll hold our own party; neon lights, loud music, everything. And it'll be just you, me, Laura, Isaac and Lydia."

"And Allison," Cora added.

"And Allison," Derek confirmed.

Cora rolled over, looking at her brother as if she wanted to say something, but she hesitated.

He reached forward and brushed the stray strands of hair from her face, smiling gently - reassuringly - at her as they laid there in silence.

"Derek," she started, finally finding her voice. "I don't know if I can do this...  I don't know if I can be a Shadowhunter."

"That's okay," Derek said reassuringly.

Cora seems stunned at his resolve; she had expected him to lash out and yell at her about how there is not life for them other than this, but instead, he reached forward, gently cupped her cheek and whispered, "It's okay. You can be whatever you want to be."

She smiled, another wave of tears stinging her eyes. She curled up against her brother's side, resting her head on his chest and letting his steady heartbeat calm her.

“Can you stay with me?” she pleaded.

“Of course,” Derek whispered. He craned his neck and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, wrapping his arms around her and holding her close the way he would when she was four-years-old and had been woken by a nightmare.

After a moment, her breathing slowed; her shoulders rising and falling with a steady rhythm.

Derek settled back against the pillows, feeling fatigue wear at him as his eyes grew heavy and slowly fell shut.

She was okay, he reminded himself. She's alive and she's okay.

 

 

Allison sat on her bed, dressed in her pyjamas and resting her sketchbook against her knees. She clutched a pencil in her hand and moved it across the page, sketching absentmindedly; her brain was running wild, her thoughts keeping her awake despite the fact that she couldn’t consciously take anything in.

There was a quite knock at the door.

“Hmm?” Allison hummed.

The door handle rattled and someone peered in.

“You can’t sleep either?” Isaac asked.

Allison shook her head.

“Want some company?”

She shrugged and shuffled across her bed, patting the mattress next to her.

Isaac stepped into the room, shutting the door behind himself and joining her. “What are you doing?”

“Drawing,” Allison muttered. “It relaxes me; a habit I’ve picked up from my dad.”

He leant over to look at it but she tilted it away.

“I don’t usually let people look at it,” she said. “It’s kind of like a diary, but with images instead of words.”

Isaac nodded thoughtfully.

“You’re a good artist,” he commented.

“Thank you,” Allison replied with a smile, shutting the sketchbook and setting it aside.

“What’s keeping you awake?” Isaac asked.

“Days ago, I was a normal teenager,” Allison muttered. “And now, my father’s missing, my best friend is a werewolf and a liar, I have no-one to trust and I don’t know what to believe, and I just witnessed a swarm of vampires trying to kill people I care about. This may seem normal to you; you deal with it every day. But to me, this is a living nightmare and I just want it to end.”

“It will,” Isaac said softly. “We’ll get your dad back.”

“How?” Allison asked, a wave of self-loathing and rage brewing in her chest. “Our last hope just went out the window. The answer was meant to be in my memories, but there’s nothing there! I try to remember the Cup, but the only memory I have is of Derek’s dad dying trying to save my father.” She clamped her hand over her mouth, fighting back her tears. After a moment, she regained her composure. “My life has been nothing but lies and secrets, how am I meant to live with that?”

“I don’t know,” Isaac confessed, his voice weak and his expression softening. He looked so vulnerable as he said, “My mother died giving birth to me. My father said it was my fault; he said I had driven her mad, I killed her… He’d yell at me, hit me, lash me with a belt, and lock me away in a freezer in the basement. He’d lock it so I couldn’t get out. My older brother, Camden, tried his best to take care of me. He’d sit by the freezer and talk to me, but he was killed in the Uprising. My father was killed years later by Jackson… My dad told me to hide in the closet and I did. I hid and watched as that bastard killed my father. I knelt in the puddle of blood by my father’s dead body for hours before someone came to get me. Then I was sent here and taken in by Talia and her kids.”

Allison was silent for a while before she finally whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Isaac said softly. “It’s the past. You can’t change it so you just have to accept it.”

A blanket of tense silence fell over them.

Allison looked up at him, noticing how his bright blue eyes were filled with pain.

He looked up at her after a moment and offered, “If you’re really tired, I might be able to help.”

“No runes,” Allison said, leaning away from him.

“No runes,” he promised. “Just a bedtime story.”

Allison squinted at him sceptically. “Are you serious?”

“I’m serious.”

Maybe fatigue had made them too tired to care. Allison sighed and laid back, pulling the pillow beneath her head as she turned onto her side and looked up at him.

“Close your eyes,” Isaac encouraged.

“If I close my eyes you have to promise that when the story is finished, you’ll leave,” Allison insisted. “No looking at my sketchbook and no sleeping with me.”

Isaac smiled weakly and said, “I promise.”

Allison closed her eyes, the ghostly sketch of light burnt into the back of her eyelids: bursts of orange, yellow and red spilling across the canvass and erupting like fireworks or exploding stars. After a moment, they settled, immersing her in a world of blue and black, a cool world that was lit by traces of green light.

"Once there was a boy," Isaac started.

"A Shadowhunter boy?" Allison interrupted teasingly, a soft smile lifting the corners of her lips.

"Of course," Isaac replied, a hint of amusement in his voice. It quickly disappeared, his sombre, docile tone returning as he continued, "When the boy was six years old, his father gave him a falcon to train. ‘Falcons are raptors-killing birds,’ his father told him, ‘the Shadowhunters of the sky and if you train them, they will fight with you.’ But the falcon didn't like the boy, and the boy didn't like the flacon, either. It would slash at him when he came near and for weeks his wrists and hands were always bleeding. He didn't know it, but his father had selected a falcon that had lived in the wild for over a year, and thus was nearly impossible to tame. But the boy tried, because his father had told him to make the falcon obedient, and he wanted to please his father.”

He paused for a moment, composing himself and shuffling about on the bed. Allison heard him lay back against the headrest before continuing, "He stayed with the falcon and kept it awake by talking to it and even playing music to it, because he thought that if he could keep the bird tired, it would be easier to tame. He learnt the equipment: the jesses, the hood, the brail, the leash that bound the bird to his wrist. He was meant to keep the falcon blind, but he couldn't bring himself to do it - instead he tried to sit where the bird could see him as he touched and stroked its wings, willing it to trust him. He fed it from his hand and, at first, it would not eat, but later it ate so savagely that its beak cut the skin of his palm. But the boy was glad, because it was progress.”

Allison felt her mind settle, imagining the small boy – a halo of blonde curls bouncing about on his head as he dressed in brightly-coloured clothes and followed his father’s footsteps – and the wild eagle – sleek wings with feathers that were tipped with light colours, the glossy beak and beady black eyes. She found herself sinking into Isaac’s story.

"He began to see that the falcon was beautiful,” Isaac said. “Its slim wings were built for the speed of flight and it was strong and swift, fierce and gentle. When it dived to the ground, it moved like light. When it learned to circle and come to his wrist, he nearly shouted with delight. Sometimes the bird would hop to his shoulder and put its beak in his hair. He knew his falcon loved him, and when he was certain it was not just tamed but perfectly tamed, he went to his father and showed him what he had done, expecting him to be proud. Instead his father took the bird, now tame and trusting, in his hands and broke its neck. 'I told you to make it obedient,' his father said, and dropped the falcon's lifeless body to the ground. 'Instead, you taught it to love you. Falcons are not meant to be loving pets: They are fierce and wild, savage and cruel. This bird was not tamed; it was broken.'”

Isaac fell silent for a moment before he continued, "Later, when his father left him, the boy cried over his pet, until eventually his father sent a servant to take the body of the bird away and bury it. The boy never cried again, and he never forgot what he'd learned: that to love is to destroy, and that to be loved is to be the one destroyed."

Allison slowly opened her eyes, looking up at Isaac who was staring at the ceiling with blue eyes that glistened like sapphire. His legs were pulled up to his chest and his chin was resting on his knees.

"That's an awful story," she said.

"Is it?" he said ruminatively.

"It's a story about child abuse. I should have known that that is what Shadowhunters think a bedtime story is like: anything that gives you screaming nightmares--”

"Sometimes the Marks can give you screaming nightmares," said Isaac. “If you get them when you're too young."

His eyes were darkened by memories of pain.

“It's a good story if you think about it," he said. "The boy's father is just trying to make him stronger. Inflexible."

"But you have to learn to bend a little," Allison countered. "Or you'll break."

"Not if you're strong enough," said Isaac firmly. He reached out and gently ran the pack of his hand down her soft cheek.

Her heavy eyes fell shut.

“If it is a bad story,” Isaac whispered as Allison slowly slipped into darkness, her body weakening as she fell into oblivion. “Then I’m glad it’s over... I’m glad he’s gone…”

"Isaac," she whispered, but the rest of her words fell away from her; sleep had her in its claws and it was drawing her down into the depths of oblivion.

 

 

Allison blinked her eyes open, the light of day seeping in through her curtains. She checked her phone only to discover she’d been asleep for two hours.

She rolled over and tried to convince herself to sleep, but she couldn’t. She laid still for a while, staring at the sheets where Isaac had been sitting. They were still crinkled and disturbed, but – as promised – he had left when she had fallen asleep.

She slowly rose from bed, her bare feet hitting the surprisingly-warm floorboards. She walked over to the nearby chair where she had tossed her duffle bag and dug through it until she found a skirt, an old shirt and a knitted green sweater. She dressed quickly, collected her phone and made her way into the hallway.

She made her way to the library but it was empty. Next, she went to the training room where she found Lydia, her hands full of gleaming silver blades. Her attention was focused on the coloured rings of targets on the far wall. She threw the daggers and spin knives at the large targets with deadly precision.

“Hey,” Allison whispered, trying not to startle the girl.

“Hey, gorgeous,” Lydia said without looking. “Did you sleep well?”

“Not really,” Allison admitted. “Can I join you?”

“Sure,” Lydia said, hurling another knife at the boards. There was a loud thud as it hit the gold ring. Lydia lowered her hands and turned to look at Allison. “You know what? I envy you.”

“Why?” Allison asked with a weak chuckle.

“You’ve been thrown into a world full of nightmares and horror stories and you seem completely unfazed by it. You walked straight into a battle, unarmed and unprepared. You were quick-thinking, heroic and fearless – everything a ‘hunter aspires to be.”

Allison bowed her head, fighting off a wave of heavy tears that welled in her eyes as she confessed, “I’m not fearless… I’m terrified.”

Lydia took a step forward, setting her knives down on a nearby table as she joined Allison.

“In the past week, I have come face-to-face with wendigos, raveners, warlocks, vampires and werewolves. And every time, I’ve had to rely on someone else to save me. I hate that.” Allison looked as if she were fighting off a wave of rage-fuelled tears as she said, “I followed you into that fight because I didn’t want to lose someone I’ve come to care about. I held Cora in my arms and all that responsibility fell on my shoulders, but I couldn’t defend her. I felt utterly weak. I hate that feeling. I want to feel stronger than that.”

Lydia nodded thoughtfully.

“Good,” she said, her voice firm. “Your training starts now.”


	9. Weapon of Choice

Allison pulled back the string, her arms trembling under the strain of the bow. She held her breath, using the cross hairs in the sight to aim her shot then released the string and fired the arrow. The tip of the arrow plunged into the wall, completely off target.

She exhaled deeply, disheartened by the result.

“Try the Mongolian draw,” Lydia instructed.

Allison frowned in confusion, her brow furrowed as she turned to look at Lydia.

“You use your thumb to draw the string back and fire,” Lydia explained.

Allison nodded and adjusted her grip on the bow slightly. She drew another arrow from her quiver and notched it. She hooked her thumb around the string and pulled it back, taking a second to aim before firing.

The arrow hit the blue ring.

“Good,” Lydia said with a proud smile. “Okay, this time, try not to be so rigid. Your weapon is an extension of yourself. You need to feel it as part of you.”

“I don’t know how to do that,” Allison whispered.

“Yes you do; you’re a Shadowhunter, it’s in your blood. So, relax, take a deep breath and just move, your instincts will do the rest.”

Allison nodded. She shut her eyes for a second, drawing in a deep breath and grounding herself. She exhaled and opened her eyes, drawing an arrow from the quiver on her shoulder. She notched it and pulled the string taut, breathing in. She exhaled, tilting the bow slightly. It rested at a 45° angle, her aim guided by her knuckle. She exhaled, releasing the string.

The arrow hit the target, dead centre.

Allison let out a breathless, joyous chuckle as she turned to look at Lydia.

She was staring at the target, her eyes wide with shock.

“What?” Allison asked. “What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing,” Lydia muttered, stepping forward. She made her way over to the target and looked at the arrow, the tip plunged deep into the perfect bullseye. “You did absolutely nothing wrong, that’s the thing… You were perfect.”

“Why do you make that sound like a bad thing?” Allison said, her voice full of worry.

“Pass me an arrow,” she said, holding out her hand.

Allison stepped forward, pulling an arrow from her quiver and handing it over to Lydia. She held it up to the other arrow as if to measure it. The arrow that had plunged into the wall drew up roughly four inches shorter than the other.

Lydia stared at it, amazed.

“I’m sorry,” Allison apologised.

“Don’t be,” Lydia said. “That’s impressive.”

“Thank you,” Allison said, breathing out. “My dad taught me.”

As soon as the words left her mouth, she froze, the glimpse of a memory flickering like a candle flame in her head. She remembered her father standing in his office, a variety of weapons set out across the rich oak tabletop of his desk: swords, daggers, bows, axes, and weapons of all sorts. She remembered standing before the desk – fifteen-years-old – and carefully reaching for the sleek black crossbow. She remembered looking down the length of it as if to size it up before setting it down and picking up the longbow. She pulled the string back, feeling how natural and comfortable it was.

Her voice was weak and quiet as she repeated, “My dad taught me…”

“That makes sense,” Deaton said as he stepped into the training room. “A bow and arrow was always your father’s weapon of choice. Christopher was skilled in a way that many Shadowhunters aren’t; he could use any weapon he picked up… a skill you seemed to have picked up from him.”

“I’m not a fighter,” Allison objected.

Deaton smiled sweetly. “We Nephilim train our sons to be soldiers and our daughters to be leaders. You don’t need a weapon if you can win a fight with words, and _that_ you can do.”

Allison turned and set the bow down on a nearby table.

“I’ll be in my room if anyone needs me,” she whispered, stepping around Deaton and making her way back down the hallway.

What was she thinking? She wasn’t a fighter? She wasn’t a warrior like Isaac, or Lydia, or Derek? She may have Clave blood but she is not Nephilim.

She made her way back to her bedroom and climbed into bed, picking her sketchbook and pencils and resting the book on her knees. She idly sketched the detailed images of the crumbling façade of the vampire-infested motel, a street on the outskirts of Beacon Hills that was lit by a single streetlight, and Isaac standing atop a roof; he was looking down from the heights with a composed expression and ivory skin that looked like the marble of a sculpture. She drew him with a halo of golden curves, the leather of his jacket billowing in the breeze while two large wings protruded from his shoulders.

She paused, looking at the drawing for a moment before shaking her head.

She turned the page, ignoring the sketch of Isaac as she tried to think of something else to draw.

There was a quiet knock at her door.

“Come in,” she said quietly.

The door opened slightly and Scott shuffled into her room. He didn’t say anything; he didn’t need to. Allison patted the mattress beside her and he crawled onto the bed, lying next to her. In the dull light that bled through her curtains she could see the dark bags under his eyes. His heavy eyes fell shut and for a moment she thought he looked like a puppy laying down to sleep.

She returned to her sketchbook, absentmindedly drawing realistic images of vampires, werewolves, and wendigos. She sketched Stiles’ eyes – the golden irises that split like a cat’s pupil. Then she drew runes; she didn’t know what they meant, but they were so present in her mind that she had to put them on paper just so she could get them out of her head.

She tried to draw her father, but when she thought of him, the image in her mind had changed. He was still as stoic as he used to be, but now she could see his scars; the thin white marks that covered his skin and left reminders of all the Marks that had been drawn into his skin. When she remembered him, his skin was like a time-lapse photo of the night sky – stars streaming across his arms, his neck and his shoulder blades.

She sighed heavily and set down her sketchbook.

Her curtains were parted just enough that she could see a sliver of the outside world, bathed in the black of night.

She turned to look at Scott, still fast asleep and curled up beside her.

There was another quiet knock at the door. She rose from the bed and made her way over to the door. Her bare feet padded across the floorboards as she turned the doorknob quietly and slunk into the hallway.

Isaac stood before her, dressed in a clean pair of jeans and a dark grey shirt. The bruises from the fight had begun to fade, colouring his cheeks ever so slightly while he looked at her, his brow creased in confusion.

“Were you asleep?” he asked.

“No,” Allison said quietly. “But Scott is.”

“You were sleeping with Scott?” Isaac asked, a glimmer of pain in his eyes.

“No,” Allison said. “I was drawing, he was sleeping… When we have nightmares, we crawl into each other’s beds. It doesn’t mean anything it’s just--”

“Like siblings do?” Isaac ventured.

“Yeah,” Allison said, breathing a sigh of relief. She looked up at him and asked, “Is there something you want?”

“Well, I heard it was a certain someone’s birthday today,” Isaac said, a wicked smile spreading across his face.

Allison opened her mouth to dismiss him when she realised that he was right.

“Tomorrow,” she corrected, her voice weak as she lost herself in her thoughts.

This wasn’t at all how she expected to spend her eighteenth birthday. Celebrating at home with her dad and Scott, with a cake her dad had baked and decorated himself and a couple of ribbons and balloons that Scott had tossed about the place; that’s how she had expected it – that’s how she _wanted_ it.

“Well, there’s no reason we can’t start celebrating now,” Isaac said. “Besides, I have a picnic planned.”

He held up a small paper bag full of food and her stomach let out an involuntary growl; she hadn’t eaten all day.

“We can sit in the greenhouse,” Isaac offered, his face lit by an excited smile. “It’s quiet, peaceful, and you get a stunning view of the city.”

“Okay,” Allison agreed, stepping away from the door and letting Isaac seize her hand and guide her down the hallway and towards the greenhouse.


	10. A Kiss At Midnight

When Isaac opened the door to the greenhouse, the rich petrichor washed over her. There was something calming about the smell, the sweet aroma was enough to still her mind and encourage her memories of spring and autumn; the days when the rain had fallen and brought the earthy scent, the days when she would play in puddles, the days when she would sit by an open window and watch the droplets of water.

The greenhouse was full of night-blooming flowers – moonflowers, white angel’s trumpets, four-o’clocks, and many more she didn’t recognise. There were other blossoming flowers, but their sepals had pulled shut under the moonlight, protecting the frail petals from the cold night air. Every now and then they’d pass a fruit tree; pears, apples, and unique fruit trees that she had never seen before.

It was like a forest of another world, hidden away on the highest floor of the old church, trees glittering with golden pollen and blossoming luminescent flowers.

Outside the glass walls of the enclosure, she could see the lights of Beacon Hills glistening like jewels. It was a peaceful oblivion that stretched across to the horizon, a pool of onyx in which the few scattered houses, storefronts and streetlights that that glittered in the darkness mirrored the starry sky like a reflection on the surface of a lake.

Allison stepped towards the window, mesmerised as she whispered, “It’s beautiful.”

“Yeah,” Isaac agreed, his eyes focused on her. “It is.”

She turned to look at him, watching as the moonlight made his dark eyes sparkle with azure. He looked as if he had something on his mind, a need to say something or do something but he bit his lip and dropped his gaze.

“Are you hungry?” he said, breaking the tension.

“Starving,” Allison admitted.

Isaac sat down in the bay window across from her, sitting the bag full of food down before him as he pulled out a foil-wrapped parcel. “Good, because I make a mean cheese melt.”

Allison took it with a kind smile and a whispered tank you as she sat down with him.

“It’s not birthday cake,” Isaac said disheartened.

“It’s fine,” Allison whispered, unwrapping it and biting into the crunchy, warm bread. “I was expected nothing, so you’ve already gone above and beyond.”

“No-one should have nothing on their birthday,” Isaac said, picking up a bright red apple and peeling it with the crystal blade of his knife. The skin came away in long, colourful curls. “Birthdays should be special. My brother always made sure that for one day I got _anything_ I wanted.”

“Anything?” Allison asked with a small laugh. “What sort of things did you ask for?”

“When I was five, I wanted to take a bath in spaghetti,” Isaac confessed. “I thought my dad would get mad, but because my brother was the golden child, he let me do it. My brother filled a bathtub with pasta and boiling water, and when it cooled, I took a bath in it.”

Allison couldn’t help but laugh, imagining a young Isaac – with bright eyes and curly golden hair – bathing in a bathtub full of pasta.

“How was it?” she asked.

Isaac thought for a moment. “Slippery.”

“What else did you ask for?” Allison prompted.

“Weapons, books, and a day of reprieve when my dad wouldn’t hit me or lock me in the freezer downstairs,” Isaac said, his expression falling as his eyes darkened like the depths of the sea.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Don’t be,” Isaac said softly. “I learnt from it. I learnt to endure it, not to break, not to feel the pain. And when he died, I got away from it. It’s over now. I won; he can’t touch me anymore.”

Allison tried to change the subject. “You were right; you make one hell of a cheese melt.”

“Thank you,” Isaac said, bowing mockingly.

Allison giggled, cupping her hand over her mouth.

Isaac opened his mouth to say something when he was silenced by a ringing bell.

“Midnight,” he whispered, leaping to his feet and holding a hand out for Allison. “Come on.”

He helped her to her feet and hurried her down a small isle to a large plant. He held her close, her back pulled up against his chest as he leant over her shoulder and whispered, “Watch.”

She followed his gaze, fixing her eyes on the large green shrub. It was covered in shiny flower buds, all pulled close. She was about to ask him what she was meant to look at when the largest of the flower buds atop the bush began to swell. The bud quivered before bursting open, the petals peeling back like a sped-up film of a blooming flower. The petals were a pale peach colour, dusted with white and gold pollen that drifted through the air like glittering dust.

“It’s gorgeous,” she whispered.

“It only blooms at midnight,” Isaac told her, his voice a soft whisper. “Happy birthday, Allison.”

A feeling of warmth swelled in her chest. “Thank you.”

“I have a present for you too,” Isaac said, digging into his pocket. He pressed something heavy into the palm of Allison’s hand.

She looked down at it, blinking in confusion. “You know, when most girls say they want a big rock, they don’t literally mean a big rock.”

“It’s a whichlight,” Isaac explained. “Every Shadowhunter has one.”

Her heart leapt in her chest as she looked down at it again.

She wasn’t a Shadowhunter, she wasn’t like them; she wasn’t strong and courageous, she couldn’t fight to protect people.

The stone glimmered in her hand, glowing like the coloured bands that everyone wore at rave parties and nightclubs.

“It’ll bring you light in the darkest shadows of this world,” Isaac said.

“Thank you,” Allison whispered, turning around in his arms to look at him. “It’s better than a bath in spaghetti.”

Isaac levelled his eyes with her. “If you share that little bit of personal information with anyone, I will have to kill you.”

Allison giggled. “Well, when _I_ was five-years-old, I wanted to go for a ride inside the dryer with all the clothes, the difference is, my parents didn’t let me.”

“Probably because going around and around inside a dryer can be fatal,” Isaac pointed out. “Whereas a pasta bath isn’t likely to kill anyone… Unless Cora makes it.”

Allison snorted slightly as she smothered her laugh. She turned and watched as the midnight flower began to wilt, shedding petals that drifted towards the floor like silver streams of starlight.

“When I was twelve, I wanted a tattoo,” Allison divulged. “But my parents wouldn’t let me have that either.”

“That makes sense,” Isaac muttered. “Most Shadowhunters get their first Marks when they’re twelve-years-old. It must have been in your blood.”

Their voices fell away as Allison realised she was enclosed in the circle of his arms, not pinned down but definitely close enough to feel the warmth of his body. He looked down at her with sparkling eyes that were blown black. Then he leant forward, tilting his head and bringing his lips to hers.

After a second, he weakened, melting into the kiss as Allison’s hands slid up his chest to his throat, pulling him closer as the tips of her fingers toyed in the sandy curls of his hair.

He settled one hand on her slender waist, the other in the curve of her back, holding her upright and drawing her into the warmth of his embrace.

Her hands were trembling, her lungs aching for breath, but his lips were so soft that she didn’t want to pull away.

Isaac broke away from the kiss, resting his forehead against hers as he tried to catch his breath.

Her eyes fluttered upon, looking up into the onyx depths of his lust-filled irises.

A flutter of wings prompted Isaac to straighten up.

“Don’t panic,” he whispered. “But I think we have an audience.”

Allison slowly turned, looking at the black raven that sat on the railing of the nearby staircase. The bird was watching them with beady black eyes, its head titled slightly.

“It’s Peter’s raven, Hugo,” Isaac said. “If he’s here, Peter won’t be far behind. We should go.”

“I don’t mean to be rude,” Allison said, following Isaac over to the small bay window where they had eaten their picnic. “But Peter is…”

“Arrogant, misanthropic, fanfaronade,” Isaac offered.

“An ass,” Allison finished.

Isaac chuckled, picking up his things.

“Those were some impressive words though,” Allison complimented.

“Thank you,” Isaac replied. “Derek and I are composing a thesaurus of words that describe Peter.”

“How many do you have?” she asked.

“Too many.”

He slid his hand into hers, lacing their fingers together as they made their way back downstairs and down the hallway to her bedroom. Once there, he pulled her close again, pinning her hips back against the wall with his as he smiled at her.

She returned the smile, gnawing at her lip as she looked up at him and said, “Thank you for my birthday picnic.”

He seemed reluctant to let go of her hand. “Are you going to sleep?”

“Aren’t you tired?”

His smile grew wider, a devilish smirk that matched his low voice as he whispered, “I’ve never been more awake.

He cupped her cheek with his spare hand, brushing his finger across her pale skin as he lent forward and brushed his lips across hers in a chaste kiss.

She arched towards him, yearning for more.

She felt him smile against her lips as he stepped closer and kissed her.

There was a quiet rattle as the bedroom door opened and Scott stepped into the hallway. “What the hell?”

Isaac broke away from Allison like a child who got caught doing something he shouldn’t.

Allison stammered, “I… I thought you were…”

“Asleep?” Scott ventured. “I was. Then I woke up and you weren’t there. I thought you might be in danger, but clearly I was wrong. I came out to see where you were and… you know what? Forget it.”

He stepped back in the room and grabbed his jacket before storming off down the hallway.

“Scott,” Allison called, chasing after him. “Please.”

“What, Allison?” Scott snapped, turning on her.

She slunk back, shocked by the harshness in her voice.

“Please, don’t leave,” she begged.

“Why should I stay?” Scott asked. “You’ve clearly mad yourself at home here.”

“Scott… My dad and you are the only people I’ve ever loved in my life,” Allison whispered, her chest aching. “I’ve already lost my dad… Please, I don’t want to lose you.”

“Why?”

Allison was stunned, staring at him blankly.

“Why do you want to keep me around when I have never meant anything to you?” Scott asked.

“You meant everything to me!” Allison cried. She fought back her sobs, biting into her pink lip as hot tears stung her eyes as she confessed, “I loved you form the day we met, but I knew my dad was going to uproot me and make me move. And if that happened, it would just be painful for both of it. I tried to spare you that pain.”

“Well, you didn’t,” Scott replied.

He turned around, pulling on his jacket as he made his way downstairs and left. She watched the door swing shut behind him.

Allison stood, alone and still, at the top do the staircase, her chest shuddering as crystal-like tears rolled down her pale cheeks.

She never thought this was possible; Scott and her father had always been there for her, but now she had lost her father and Scott was gone too. In days, she had lost everyone she ever loved.

 

 

Across town, Derek shoved his hands into his pockets, making his way through the dark night as the cold air bit at his flesh. He made his way into the abandoned streets at the far end of town.

The surrounding buildings were decrepit: old workshops and industrial buildings, some in ruins – with buckling walls, crumpled bricks and streams of water coursing through the rubble like ravines - and others were just abandoned and tagged with crude sprawls of spray-paint.

He had told his sister that he had gone to say thank you to someone who had helped them get Cora back, and that was the truth. At least, that’s what Derek told himself as he stepped up to the door of the large building. There was something else nagging at him, a thought in the back of his mind that he couldn’t ignore, nor could he make sense of it; he didn’t know why he was here, but he was.

He reached forward and rang the doorbell.

“What?” came a tired growl through the intercom.

“It’s Derek,” he said, his voice catching in his throat. He coughed to clear it. “Of the Clave.”

“Are you the pretty one or the annoying one?” Stiles asked.

Derek frowned in confusion and answered unsurely, “The pretty one?”

“Come on in.”

A buzzer sounded as the front door unlocked.

Derek pushed it open and stepped into the building. He climbed up the small fleet of stairs to the loft where Stiles had hosted the party. Now empty, the space looked completely different. Everything was in tones of grey and blue. It was minimally furnished and rather tasteful.

Stiles stood at the foot of the stairs, dishevelled and far less glamorous than he had looked at the party. He was dressed in a baggy shirt and a pair of jeans, revealing his slender figure as he smiled at Derek.

“Hello, Bright Eyes. Nice to see you again,” he said. “Might I ask the occasion of your visit?”

“I came to say thank you,” Derek answered, running his hand through his hair as he silently cursed himself for being so nervous. “I know you risked a lot to help us out and it means a lot to me that you did. Thank you.”

“Is there a reason you came to tell me this in person?” Stiles asked, eyeing him suspiciously. “I mean, you could have just called.”

Derek opened his mouth to say something but his words failed him. Why had he come in person? Why was he making a fool of himself?

Stiles smiled sweetly at him. “It’s amusing to see a Nephilim so nervous.” He quickly changed the subject, easing Derek’s anxiety. “How’s your sister?”

“She’s okay,” Derek replied. “She’s really shaken up and scared that I’m going to flip out on her at any second, but she’s alive and she’s okay.”

“That’s good,” Stiles said with a sincere smile. “I’m glad to hear she’s okay.”

“Is there some way I can pay you back for helping us?” Derek asked.

Stiles shook his head. “I have more than enough, and knowing your sister is alive and well is payment enough for me.”

Derek looked up at him, meeting his gaze. He watched as the amber depths of his eyes swirled like whiskey and honey.

“You can lie if you want to,” Stiles said softly. “But I’m going to ask again. Why did you come here?”

Derek stepped forward, cupping Stiles’ face in his hands and bringing their mouths together in a blistering passionate kiss.

Stiles froze, blinking with shock. But he relaxed, melting into the warmth of the kiss. He ran his hands up Derek’s arms, feeling the tense muscles beneath his worn leather jacket.

Derek seemed to weaken, comforted by the fact that Stiles didn’t push him away. The kiss grew more gentle and tender as his hand caressed the soft, mole-speckled skin of Stiles’ cheek. He drew back ever so slightly, keeping their lips together but pulling the boy forward so that their bodies were pressed together.

Stiles felt his arms instinctively slide up to Derek’s neck, his fingertips brushing against Derek’s jaw before trailing back to the nape of his neck. He laced his fingers through the soft tufts of Derek’s hair, tilting his head slightly and deepening the kiss. He pulled Derek closer, losing himself in the older boy’s warmth.

Derek felt his heartbeat rise into his throat. His lungs burnt, desperate for air. He drew back, enough for them to draw breath before bringing their lips together again.

Stiles felt his shoulders drop as he weakened in Derek’s hold. His eyes fluttered shut as he looped his arms around Derek’s neck, desperately clawing at his jacket. Derek dropped one hand to Stiles’ waist and pulled him close. He kept his other hand on the boy’s cheek, brushing the ball of his thumb across the soft skin. He enveloped the smaller boy in his warmth. He ran his tongue across Stiles’ bottom lip and moaned as Stiles obediently opened his mouth to welcome Derek’s tongue.

Stiles sighed and whimpered needily in return, weaving his fingers into Derek’s hair and balling the raven black locks into his fist. His other hand ran down the man’s shoulders, biceps and back. He wanted to feel every inch of Derek’s skin, to trace the seams of his muscles, to feel the curves that made him human and the muscles that made him solid, to feel the warmth of the blood in his veins that made him human and to melt into the curves of his body and the comfort of his arms.

Derek melted in his arms. His lungs ached so much he wanted to cry but he desperately didn’t want to let go. Finally, he drew back, licking his lips and grinning at Stiles’ euphoric expression.

Derek tilted his chin, chasing his Stiles’ lips, but the boy shook his head teasingly. He felt Stiles chuckle against his mouth as he brought them back together again in a chaste kiss.

But Derek couldn’t help himself. He wanted this so badly: the intimacy, the delicate touches, the warmth, and the comfort. He wanted Stiles.

“Is that your way of paying me back?” Stiles asked, his soft chuckle rolling across Derek’s lips. “Because that’s more than enough payment.”

“And if I want more?” Derek questioned, his voice a soft purr.

Stiles gnawed at his lip, trying to hide his smile as he said, “I wouldn’t object to a bonus.”

His hand still rested on the curve of Stiles’ neck as he brought their lips together again, tenderly this time.

Stiles returned the kiss. He kissed Derek lightly, drawing away quickly as he craned his neck and placed a trail of kisses across the boy’s cheek, jaw, chin, and neck. He stayed there, gently sucking and nipping at Stiles’ pale skin and moles. His soft lips pressed against Derek’s racing pulse.

Derek failed to smother a sigh as soft moan escaped his lips. He could feel Stiles’ smirk as the he pressed soft kisses against the patches of skin which were marked with runes. His hands slid beneath Derek’s jacket, running up the curve of his spine and urging the older boy arch to his touch.

Derek ran his hand up Stiles’ forearm, feeling every inch of his skin. His hand trailed over the smooth lines of a scar.

He glanced down, looking at the rosy-pink skin that was carved into the shape of a rune: ‘Torture’.

Derek’s eyes flew wide open, his chest aching.

Stiles pulled his arm back, dark swirls of pain filling his eyes as he said, “It’s nothing. It’s all in the past.”

Stiles pulled back, stepping away from Derek and shaking his arm as if the rune was just freshly burnt into his flesh.

“Stiles,” Derek said softly.

“Can we, please, not talk about it?” Stiles asked hurriedly.

“Okay,” Derek agreed.

After a moment, Stiles spun around again, his bright smile back on his face and his eyes sparkling as he purred, “You know, we don’t have to talk about anything at all… We can do a whole lot of not talking upstairs, in my room…”

A soft blush coloured Derek’s cheeks as he stepped forward and took a hold of Stiles’ outstretched hand. “I’d like that.”


	11. The Mortal Cup

Allison sat on the end of her bed, too tired and weak to cry, but feeling hollow and broken nonetheless.

She had lost both Scott and her father now; she had lost everyone she had loved.

She reached for her sketchbook and set it in her lap, looking back over all of her past sketches: the sketches of still life cups, vases and decorations, the portraits of her father and Scott, sketches of graphic novel ideas she had put together over the past years - realising now that they were glimpses into the shadow world and encounters that had prompted her father to take her back to see Stiles and have her memories blocked. She stopped at the sketch of Isaac standing atop a roof. Through the page, she could see the bold lines of the runes on the other page, but she ignored them. She focused on the image of the young man looking down from the height of the building's rooftop with a composed expression and ivory skin that looked like the marble of a sculpture. She had drawn him with a halo of golden curves, the leather of his jacket billowing in the breeze while two large wings protruded from his shoulders.

She admired the picture, taking pride in how realistic it looked; the feathers of the wings so detailed that she swore she could touch them.

She let her mid wonder, her hand drifting over the page. Something beneath her fingertips felt textured: soft, fluffy and smooth.

She jerked her hand back.

She looked down at the page.

It was nothing but lead on paper but it had felt like the real thing. But through the page, she saw the runes glowing as if they had just been drawn onto skin.

Her mind reeled with thoughts.

She scrambled for her pencils, looking around the room for something to draw. Her eyes fell on the tea cup on the dresser by her bed. She sketched it with immaculate detail, from the patterning painted onto the china all the way to the grains of the chip on the rim. When she was finally done, she drew the runes beside it and then reached for the cup. She closed her eyes, letting her mind relax as she rested the cup against the page of her sketchbook. He opened her eyes and looked down at the page. She drew her hand back, empty. The cup was gone.

 

 

Isaac laid on his bed, pretending to be asleep as a way of convincing himself to shut himself off from everything that had happened and sleep the time away the way he did when he was a child locked in the basement.

He tossed about restless.

Finally giving up, he leapt to his feet and crossed to the punching bag in the corner of the room. He stripped off his sweat-soaked shirt and balled his fists, slamming his knuckles into the leather bag again and again. He felt the bruises blossom as the pain stung his knuckles.

He was interrupted by a knock at the door.

He groaned as he made his way across the room and opened it, looking down at Allison. She stood in the hallway, clutching her sketchpad to her chest while her hair was tossed about in an unruly mess of raven black waves. She looked like she was about to say something when her eyes fell on his bare chest, riddled with the faint white marks of faded Marks and mangles salmon-pink scars from the years of abuse.

"If you're looking for a nude model, go talk to Lydia," he growled. "She's always up for something new. Or maybe you could ask Derek, I hear he'll do anything for a blowj--”

"Isaac," she interrupted, composing her thoughts. "Will you shut up for a second and just listen?"

He blinked, stunned by her harsh tone.

She drew in a deep breath and looked at him. Her eye were full of fear and uncertainty, a mix of emotions that made him feel like he should protect her or hold her in his arms until it all went away.

"Can you put a shirt on?" she asked, her voice raspy and hoarse.

Isaac shrugged. He crossed the room and picked up a clean shirt from the pile near his wardrobe and pulled it on, tugging down the hem until it hid his scars.

"Now," he said, turning to face her. "What could be so important that you had to disrupt me?"

"I think I know where the Cup is," she said.

He ushered her into the room.

She hurried over to the bed and set the sketchbook down.

"It's in a painting," Allison announced, pulling open the pages to the sketch of the tea cup.

"What?" Isaac said, his brow creasing in confusion.

"Watch," she insisted, closing her eyes and breathing deeply to relax her rampant mind. Her fingertips sank into the page and a moment later she drew out the cup.

Isaac stared in amazement, words escaping him.

“The runes came into my head and I drew them how I saw them, but I’ve never seen them before,” Allison said. “I think my dad might have taught me them and then made me forget, that way, no-one would be able to use me to get the Cup if he went missing.”

“Okay, so your dad put the Cup in a painting?” Isaac pondered, slowly getting over the shock of what he had seen. “So, we just need to find the painting?”

Allison fell quiet, thinking for a moment. A thought struck her and she bolted upright, the cup slipping from her hand as she grabbed Isaac’s shoulder and made a start for the door. “I think I know where it is.”

“Where?” Isaac shouted after her, picking up his heels and running after her.

“Miss Morrell’s,” Allison called back. “It’s at Miss Morrell’s.”

 

 

Stiles’ back collided with the wall, prompting him to grunt against Derek’s lips, but they didn’t break the kiss. He threaded his fingers through Derek’s hair, lacing the inky black hair through the gaps in his fingers and pulling him close.

The kiss was deep and mess, nothing but passion and unresolved sexual tension finally being released.

Derek’s hand trailed down the boy’s side, caressing his surprisingly firm body before settling on the curve of his hip, pulling him closer. He rolled his hips forward, gently pushing Stiles back against the solid wall.

Stiles slid his hand up under the hem of Derek’s shirt, feeling the taut muscles that twitched beneath the man’s golden flesh. He caressed the man’s soft skin, feeling the smooth curves and the warmth of his body. He looped his arms around Derek’s neck, using his weight to pull the man closer.

Derek’s phone began to buzz in his pocket.

“Ignore it,” Stiles said pleadingly, his lips brushing against Derek’s as he spoke.

Derek pressed a chaste kiss to Stiles’ lips apologetically as he drew back, pulling his phone from the pocket of his jeans and answering the call.

“What?” he growled, not bothering to hide his irritation.

“We may have found the Cup,” Isaac said. “Laura’s going to stay at the Institute with Cora and Peter, so Lydia, Allison and I will meet you there.”

“Where?” Derek asked.

“I’ll send the address to your phone,” Isaac answered. “Lydia’s got a bow and arrow for you, just meet us there.”

Isaac hung up.

Derek muttered a flurry of obscenities under his breath as he pocketed his phone and looked at Stiles.

The boy straightened and slouched back against the wall, pouting as he looked up at Derek.

“I’m sorry,” Derek whispered. “I’ve got to go.”

“I know,” Stiles said softly. His hand gently ran down Derek’s arm, leaning forward to brush his lips across Derek’s ever so lightly, barely a kiss. “I’ll let you go if you promise me something.”

“Anything,” Derek said breathlessly, dreading the thought of leaving.

“Don’t be a stranger.”

 

 

They stood out the front of the apartment building, gathered on the footpath that led to the front door.

Lydia was dressed in black jeans, a short-sleeved shirt, and thick leather armour and – somehow – she pulled it off. She had a belt strapped to her waist, lined with throwing knives and daggers. Three angel blades were stuffed into her pocket and the coil of a silver whip was fastened at her waist. Her bare arms were lined with dark runes: Protection, Glamour, Speed, Agility, Healing, and several others.

Isaac wore his usual attire: shirt, jeans and a leather jacket. He had stuffed his angel blades in the pocket inside of his jacket and balanced his stele in his hand, trying to finish drawing the runes in on his arms. His sleeve was pulled up and his chin was on his shoulder as he scowled at the healing rune he was drawing in his upper arm.

“You’re messing it up,” a voice called from down the street.

Isaac pouted as Derek stepped up to his side and took the stele from him, hissing, “Let me do it.”

“I’m left-handed,” Isaac whined. “Even if it is a basic _iratze_ , it’s hard when you draw it with your other hand.”

Derek rolled his eyes, correcting the shape of the rune and waiting until it darkened like black ink before stepping back. “There.”

“That’s one hell of a mark you’ve got there, Derek,” Lydia teased, gesturing towards the patch of purple that coloured his neck. “How’d you get that?”

“I tripped,” Derek said dismissively.

“You tripped while you were on a walk to where exactly?” Lydia pushed.

“Lydia, if you don’t stop, I’m leaving,” Derek said sharply.

Lydia shrugged, tossing him the bow and quiver of arrows she had brought for him.

He shrugged off his jacket and strapped the quiver over his shoulder and, with the hand that wasn’t holding the bow, he uttered something to his angel blade and pulled out a sword. His arms were already covered in runes that he must have drawn on his way to meet them.

“Are you all ready?” Derek asked, looking at the others.

They nodded.

“Good,” he said. “Let’s head in.”

Derek took the lead, Isaac and Lydia following.

“Does he seem different to you?” Lydia asked, leaning in close so only Isaac could hear her.

“I’m not sure,” he whispered back. He glanced over his shoulder. “Allison, stay close.”

Derek reached for the door, finding it ajar. He tightened his grip on the sword and kicked the door in. The heavy oak hit the hardwood floor with a thundering boom.

The three of them burst into the foyer, weapons at the ready.

Allison stood in the open doorway, waiting for their signal. She gagged at the smell; the putrid stench of sweat, rotting fruit, and death.

Isaac held his witchlight up, lighting the unusually dark foyer.

Nothing seemed disturbed. Everything was in its rightful place, just darkened by the lingering shadows in the hallway and full of the strange muggy stench

Derek wheeled around, his blade readied for a fight as he eyes the young woman in the nearby doorway.

She stared back at him, her eyes narrowed in an unamused glare. “Was that really necessary?”

“Miss Morrell,” Allison called, stepping forward.

Her eyes flew open wide with shock as she let out a sigh of relief. “Allison, oh thank goodness you’re okay.” She rushed forward, pulling Allison into her arms. “Come on, come inside.”

She ushered Allison inside her apartment, Isaac, Lydia and Derek following.

“What are you doing back here?” Miss Morrell asked as she guided Allison towards one of the plush chairs at the table.

Isaac sat down in the seat next to hers as Allison explained, “I need your help with something.”

“I take it you haven’t found your father yet?” Miss Morrell said, slightly disheartened.

“No,” Allison replied. “But I do know where to look, I just need something from you first.”

“Anything.”

“Can I look at your tarot deck?” Allison asked. “The one my dad painted for you.”

“Of course,” she said, retrieving the old, weathered box from the shelf. She set it down on the table and opened the lid, passing the cloth wrapped cards to Allison.

She handled them carefully, unfolding the felt cloth and brushing aside the cards until she found the one she was looking for: the Ace of Cups.

She looked at the detailed painting of the gorgeous cup. The ornate chalice was made of pale glass with streams of gold coiled around it like veins around the body. The gold rim was studded with blood-red rubies that gleamed as they caught the light.

“Isaac,” she whispered, holding out her hand. “Can I borrow your stele?”

He pulled his gleaming silver stele out of the inside pocket of his jacket and laid it in the palm of her hand.

She took it from him, turning over the card and tracing the runes that were painted onto the pack of the cards – swift lines and curves that seemed so familiar. They glowed like burning ambers, the edges of the lines sparking with flares of red and gold as the lines darkened.

She turned the card over, shoving the stele into her pocket as she brushed her fingers over the front of the card. She drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes, relaxing her rampant mind as she tried to imagine her fingers sinking into the card.

Her fingers brushed against the cold metal and she let out an excited gasp, tightening her grip and pulling her hand back.

She opened her eyes, looking down at the empty card that sat in her hand and the gleaming gold chalice resting in her other hand.

“It worked,” she gasped, a gasp of surprise and relief falling past her lips.

“It’ damaged,” Marin said, stunned as she stared at the Cup.

Allison turned it about in her hands but found nothing. “What are you taking about?”

Marin stepped around the table and over to Allison’s side.

“Here,” she said, holding out her hands. “Let me show you.”

Allison, not knowing why, pulled away from her. Her instincts screamed at her to run, but she stayed, frozen in her place.

“No offence,” Isaac said from the seat next to Allison’s. “But nobody touches the Cup but us.”

“That’s understandable,” Miss Morrell said softly. “But I don’t think Gerard would be pleased if something were to happen to the Cup.”

Allison’s eye flew open. She leant further away from Miss Morrell, the heels of her shoes steadied on the ground as she readied herself to duck or run. “I never said anything about handing the Cup over to Gerard.”

Marin’s expression twisted into one of shock and innocence. “Didn’t you?”

Allison shrunk back.

Isaac rose to his feet, setting a hand on Allison’s shoulder as he tightened his grip on the sword in his other hand. “We’re leaving.”

“Of course, Shadowhunter,” Miss Morrell said softly, taking a step back and rounding the table. “Would you like to use the Portal?”

Isaac flinched in a moment of hesitation, turning to see the woman reach for the large velvet curtain that hung over the wall. “Don’t touch that--”

A wicked grin cracked Marin’s face as she tore the curtain from the wall. Behind it was a swirling abyss, lit with streams of violet and forks of lightning. Through the darkness, a strange shape came hurtling towards them.

Isaac grabbed Allison’s shoulders and bellowed, “Get down!”

There was a thundering boom that knocked them all off their feet. Derek and Lydia hit the walls of the hallway while Isaac tackled Allison out of the way. She hit the rug with a thud, clutching the Cup to her chest while Isaac arched over her, using his body as a shield. Gusts of wind whipped her hair about, casting shadows across her eyes as she squinted up at Miss Morrell.

She watched as the black figure burst through the portal and struck the woman, knocking her back slightly before enveloping her body in blankets of black smoke that pooled around her like wavering fabric.

“Go,” Isaac stammered, taking a second to compose himself before leaping to his feet and grabbing Allison’s arm. He hurled her upright and shoved her towards the front door as he shouted, “Go!”

Lydia caught Allison as she stumbled running with her as the four of the hurried back into the foyer. They gasped at the sight of the front door – upright on its hinges and slammed shut. Lydia grabbed for the handle, pulling at it but it didn’t budge.

“Damn it!” Lydia cried, reaching into her pocket for her stele.

A thundering noise like an explosion stopped them in their tracks. The floor beneath them shuddered, knocking them off balance as the hallway filled with shattered plaster, splintered wood and debris.

Allison grabbed a hold of the banister, looking at the gaping hole in the wall of Miss Morrell’s apartment.

A looming figure that looked like an amalgamation of boiling black ooze, plumes of smoke and a raging storm stepped through the jagged hole in the wall. The wave of stench – boiling flesh, rotting fruit and decay – hit her hard, making her eyes water.

“Derek!” Isaac shouted, drawing Allison’s attention to the young man standing before the creature, white-faced and staring in horror. Isaac cursed and leapt forward, tackling Derek aside just as the creature burst free of the hole and lunged forward.

It crashed into the stairwell, knocking Allison into the corner.

Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at the creature. It looked like a large skeleton bathed in cloths made from misty darkness, the ivory bones withered and aged. Its talon-like fingers dragged across the floor, splintering the hardwood floorboards and leaving deep groves in the grains as it turned to look at her with hollow eyes. “ _Give me the Cup._ ”

Allison tightened her grip on the Cup, clutching it to her chest as she looked at the creature in horror.

“ _Give me the cup and I shall spare your life_.”

“It’s a Greater Demon,” Derek gasped.

“What did you do to Miss Morrell?” Allison whimpered.

“ _She was a vessel_ ,” the Demon growled. “ _She knew the risks when she first opened the Portal, and now she is mine. Her death was swift… yours shall not be._ ”

The Greater Demon began to move towards her, but in the blink of an eye Isaac as in front of her, his sword gleaming in one hand as he grabbed a seraph blade with the other and called forth the glowing crystal blade.

The Demon lunged at him and he slashed back, his blades arching and moving with speed and precision.

The creature howled and knocked him aside. Isaac hit the floor with a heavy thud and a pained grunt, quickly rolling to his feet, steadying himself and charging at the Demon again. He winced as he fought, his arm torn and bleeding as the _iratze_ rune did the best it could to heal him.

“Lydia,” he called of the howling beast. “Molotov!”

He ducked out of the way as Lydia hurled a small glass at the creature. It shattered and the contents ignited, consuming the Greater Demon in flickering blue flames.

The Demon let out an ear-piercing screech.

In the moment of distraction, Isaac charged forward, plunging his sword into the Demon’s chest. He pranced back and pulled out another seraph blade, whispering to it and calling forth the gleaming blade.

The flames died down and the Demon turned on him, the wind whipping the shadows about as it stared at the boy, livid with rage.

It moved faster than they had expected, lashing out at Isaac.

He stumbled backwards, knocked out of harm’s way. His eyes were wide, staring at the figure that stood before him.

Derek stood before the boy, his arm outstretched and the blade of his sword wedged in the creature’s throat. His face was stoic, but his composure was fracturing and pain was seeping through. Blood gushed from his chest, streaming down his shirt as thin ribbons of scarlet dripped from his lips.

The creature hurled him aside and he hit the stairwell with a sickening thud and a loud crack of bones.

Isaac stood frozen, staring at Derek’s body. His lips quivered with shallow breaths as the sapphire depths of his eyes filled with pain and fear. The glittering depths darkened, growing pale like the flickering flame of a blue inferno. He turned to face the Demon, his face void of emotion as he lunged forward and slashed at him, screaming like a mad man.

Lydia joined the fight but the Demon backhanded her, throwing her across the foyer.

Allison sprinted up the stairs and vaulted the bannister. She dropped down to Derek’s side, gently shaking him.

“Derek,” she whimpered. “Derek, come on.”

She pulled Isaac’s stele from her pocket, trying to shut out the battle behind her. She grabbed Derek’s arm and drew a healing rune into the blood-smeared skin of his forearm. It glowed for a second before burning away like a strip of paper.

“No,” she cried, drawing the rune again.

A thundering crash struck nearby. She glanced out the corner of her eye and saw the taloned hand of the Demon beside her, Isaac pinned beneath it.

His face was screwed up in pain, his breath wheezing out of his chest as a pained cry failed to reach his lips.

She grabbed Derek’s bow, pulling an arrow from his quiver and notching it. She rose to her feet and spun around, pulling the string taut as she stared the Greater Demon down.

“ _Give me the Cup_ ,” the Demon demanded.

Allison shook her head and spat, “Never.”

“ _You cannot win,_ ” the Demon taunted. “ _Give me the Cup and I will spare you_.”

“Burn in hell,” Allison growled, lifting her bow and firing at the skylight.

The arrowhead shattered the glass, daylight streaming in like water through a broken dam.

The Greater Demon screeched as it staggered back, jagged talons clawing at its own body. The blankets of abysmal darkness folded in upon themselves until it drew itself into oblivion.

Allison stood still for a second, staring at where the Demon had been.

“Allison,” Lydia called, stumbling to her feet and staggering to the girl’s side.

Allison held out Isaac’s stele and muttered, “The rune won’t take.”

“What do you mean?” Lydia gasped, horrified.

“I drew an _iratze_ and it won’t take,” Allison explained, turning to look at Derek.

Isaac sprinted to his _parabati_ ’s side, lifting Derek into his lap as he called his name.

“It got him,” Lydia gasped, looking at the thick gashes that tore open Derek’s chest. “There’s too much demon poison in him, the runes won’t work.”

“Come on, Derek,” Isaac cried. “Can you hear me?”

The older boy wheezed, slowly blinking his eyes open. He coughed, spluttering blood down his chin as he rasped, “Did I kill it?”

Isaac seemed stunned by the question.

Allison’s mind darted back to what Isaac had told her: _“He’s killed a number of vampires, werewolves and strays, but he’s never killed a demon.”_

“Yes,” she said quietly. Everyone looked at her, shocked, as she cleared her throat and more clearly said, “You killed it. You did it.”

A smile spread across Derek’s lips, blood bobbling in his mouth as he laughed. The laugh dies away as his eyes fell shut and his body began to shudder.

“No, Derek,” Isaac yelped. “Please, hold on.”

“We need to get him back to the Institute,” Lydia insisted.

“How are we going to do that?” Isaac snapped, rage brewing in his eyes. “He’ll die before we can carry him there.”

“We have to try,” Lydia snapped back.

“What the hell is going on?” someone asked from behind them.

Allison turned at the sound of the familiar voice, a sigh of relief falling past her lips as she whispered, “Scott.”

“What happened here?” he asked, looking at the broken wall and scratched floorboards.

“Do you have a car?” Allison asked, panicked.

“Yeah,” Scott said, showing her the gleaming metal of the keys in his hand. “Why?”

“We need a ride to the Institute,” Allison said. “I know you’re mad at me but I really need your help right now. Please.”

Scott’s eyes drifted behind her to Derek’s still, bleeding body. His expression was firm as he nodded, tolling Allison the keys. “Open up the back and lay a blanket down for him.”

“Thank you,” Allison gasped as she grabbed the Cup and ran past him, out to the four-wheel-drive parked by the curb. She did as he was told, looking back to see Scott and Isaac hauling Derek towards the car.

Lydia leapt into the back, helping the boys lift Derek into the car and cradling Derek’s head in her lap while Isaac climbed in with them.

Allison passed Scott the keys and sprinted to the front of the four-wheel-drive, climbing into the passenger seat while Scott slid into the driver’s side. He started the engine, not waiting for anyone to fasten their seatbelts or giving any warning before slamming his foot down on the accelerator and speeding off to the Institute.

“Anyone mind telling me what the hell has happened?” Scott said through gritted teeth as spun the wheel and rounded onto Station Street.

“Greater Demon,” Lydia said, her voice trembling as she struggled to say anything.

“A what?!” Scott howled.

“Just get us to the Institute!” Isaac snapped.

“We’re three minutes away,” Scott told him.

Allison glanced over the back of the seat, looking at the pain in Isaac’s eyes as he looked down at his friend. It wasn’t hard to imagine the boy crying over the falcon.

_To love is to destroy._


	12. Betrayal

“I can’t help him,” Deaton said remorsefully, looking down at Derek’s pale face as he shuddered and wheezed on the bed. His brow was dampened by beads of sweat that Deaton patted away with a damp towel, dipping it in the nearby bowl of cool water, ringing it and bringing it back to Derek’s forehead. “We can try and make him comfortable, but this is beyond my ability. I’ll send word to the Silent Brothers.”

“The Silent Brothers won’t help,” Laura said, disheartened. “It’ll take them days to reply and they’ll only come if they feel it’s worth it.”

“It’s worth a try,” Deaton said softly.

“I have another idea,” Allison said, her voice quiet as she lingered by the door to the infirmary.

“I know that look,” Scott muttered. “You’re either about to do something stupid or something crazy.”

“I’m about to do both,” Allison muttered, digging the chalice out of her pocket and passing it to Isaac. “But it may be the only chance of saving him.”

“Fine,” Scott whispered as he followed Allison towards the front door.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m coming with you,” Scott said bluntly. “Wherever you’re going, a car will get you there five times as fast and I made a promise to your dad that I would take care of you. So…” He dangled his car keys before her face as he said, “Tell me where we’re going.”

 

 

Scott pulled the car up before the large building, pulling the gear stick into park.

Allison didn’t wait for Scott to shut off the engine; she leapt from the car seat and rushed towards the front door.

“Allison,” he called after her.

“Just stay there,” she shouted back. “And keep the engine running.”

She stumbled over her own legs, trying to avoid the cracked concrete as she sprinted up to the front door of the loft. She thumped her hand against the cold metal, feeling it sting with every hit.

Her chest ached as she waited, shifting back and forth on her feet.

A dishevelled figure answered, rubbing his hand down his face as he glared at her with tired whiskey-golden eyes.

“Allison, you’re a nice person and I like you,” he muttered. “But waking me up this early is one way to very quickly get on my bad list.”

“I need your help,” Allison gasped, ignoring his rambled threat.

Stiles looked at her for a moment, taking in the distressed expression on her face. He straightened his back, his eyes wide with shock as he asked, “What’s happened?”

“It’s Derek,” she whimpered. “He’s drying.”

Stiles pulled the door open and stepped outside, slamming it shut behind himself without a word.

Allison let out a sigh of relief, leading Stiles over to Scott’s four-wheel-drive.

 

 

The three of them burst into the infirmary, rushing over to the bed where Derek laid.

“What is he doing here?” Laura gasped.

“I’m here to save Derek,” Stiles announced, stepping around everyone. “Scott and Allison explained everything to me on the way over. Whatever quarrel you have with me can wait.” His eyes fell on the youngest present, lingering for a moment as a glimmer of pain lit his eyes. “You must be Cora.”

She nodded shyly.

“I’m glad to see you’re okay,” Stiles said softly. “And I’m sorry for what happened.”

“Thank you,” she muttered.

Stiles turned his attention to Derek, freezing for a moment.

He reached for Derek’s hand, turning his palms upright and running the ball of his thumb across the blood red runes were burnt into the palms of the young man’s hands. The cindering flesh had dimming to charred, black burns and Allison seemed to recognise them; they read ‘Purity’ and ‘Obedience’.

Stiles stared at them, his eyes filling with horror, pain and a sense of remembrance. The words fell past his lips before he could stop them, “Torture runes.”

He looked at Derek, his golden eyes wide with shock as he seemed to talk to Derek, “Why would you…?”

“Can you help him?” Laura asked, unable to hide the desperation from her voice.

“Yes,” Stiles said, snapping back to attention. “But this is going to get ugly, so I’d appreciate it if everyone stepped out of the room.”

“No, I’m not leaving--”

“Laura,” Lydia said softly, looking up at her with jade eyes full of sympathy.

Laura sighed, her shoulders dropping as she pulled Cora into her arms and led the others into the hallway.

All of them huddled around the closed doors, ignoring the flashes of light and strange sounds that came from inside the infirmary.

Lydia talking softly to Laura and Cora to assure them that he would be okay, Scott stood further down the hallway and ignored the rest of them, and Allison stood by Isaac, helping him draw healing runes into his skin and patch up the cuts and broken bones he tried so hard to ignore.

“It’s my fault,” Allison muttered.

“No,” Isaac replied, shaking his head. “This is not your fault.”

“I’m the one that wanted to go there,” Allison pointed out.

“And I’m the one who wasn’t paying attention,” Isaac countered. “I knew something was wrong. I knew Derek wasn’t acting like himself, and as his _parabati_ I should have stopped him before he hurt himself, but I didn’t.”

Isaac dropped his gaze, leaning forward and resting his forehead against Allison’s.

“I didn’t because I was too preoccupied thinking of you.”

They were interrupted when the doors to the infirmary swung open and Stiles slouched against the doorframe, looking pale and exhausted.

“I’ve done what I can,” he announced. “He will be okay, but he will need to rest.”

“Thank you,” Laura said, hesitating to enter the infirmary.

“If you will permit it, I would like to stay until he wakes to make sure he is alright,” Stiles requested.

“Of course,” Laura said.

Stiles nodded and rose to his feet, stumbling back to Derek’s bed and slumping down in the small metal chair beside it.

Laura and Scott followed him in, sitting on the chairs that had been brought over to the other side of the bed. Lydia took Cora back to her room to sit with her.

“Isaac,” Peter called as he rounded the corner of the hallway. “You have the Cup, right?”

Isaac nodded.

“Good. Deaton wants to talk to the two of you.”

“Where is he?” Isaac asked, pushing off the wall and straightening his back.

“Library,” Peter said shortly, leading the way.

They followed the man down the hallways and into the library. As they stepped into the room, they were caught off guard, the usually roaring fire had dimmed to cinders and the oil lamps had been dimmed to a small glow. The light refracted off of the silver and brass on the bound books, glinting and glaring at them like haunting eyes.

Shadows were cast across the room, making it hard to distinguish the silhouettes, but they could smell the all-too-familiar copper stench of blood that filled their mouths.

Their eyes fell upon Deaton.

He sat in a chair, his wrists tied to the armrests and his body sagging forward.

Allison opened her mouth to call to him when she was silenced by the echoing bang of the library doors slamming shut and a heavy lock dropping into place.

She and Isaac spun around, looking at Peter with wide eyes.

His icy blue irises lowered on them with a predatory glint as he called, “ _Hugin_.”

Allison didn’t have time to scream; the raven dove on her with a razor-sharp beak and jagged talons. She raised her arms to shield herself but the bird slashed through her jacket, tearing gases of flesh from her arms and scratching at her face.

From somewhere beyond the shrieking caw of the bird and her own screams, she heard Isaac call her name.

She opened her eyes, squinting through the whirling mess of claws and inky-black feathers to see Isaac drop to the floor.

The bird dove at her again, claws digging into her forehead and tearing open her skin. She felt warm streams of blood and tears caress her face as she fell to her knees, thrashing about to fight off the raven.

“That’s enough, Hugo,” Peter said calmly.

Obediently, the bird pulled back, circling the room before nesting on one of the high bookshelves.

Allison collapsed to the ground, her body shuddering as blood coursed her skin. Her lips trembled as she blinked past the red haze and saw Isaac on the ground. She tried to call to him, but it was barely a murmur.

“Peter,” she whimpered. “What did you do? … When the Clave finds out--”

“When the Clave finds out, I’ll be long gone and they’ll never find me,” Peter snarled.

“Why?” Allison rasped, wincing as she pushed herself upright. She watched as Peter dug through Isaac’s pockets and picked up the Cup. “Why would you want the Cup?”

“I don’t,” Peter admitted. He turned his back to her and looked up at the second raven perched on the high shelves, “Munin, send the signal.”

The bird cawed and flew up through the open skylight.

Seconds later, a shimmering light blossomed in the library as the air warps and pulled back to reveal a spiral of light darkness and colour: another Portal.

It peeled back like a curtain of silver as a figure emerged: an old man with a wide jaw, a bald spot, thinning white hair and dark eyes.

“Do you have the Cup?” the man asked, his voice husky and harsh.

“Yes, Lord Argent,” Peter said respectfully.

Allison flinched, staring at the man.

 _That_ was Gerard? _That_ was her grandfather?

Looking closely, she could see some resemblance: the dark eyes that she hadn’t gotten from her parents and the scowl that her father often wore.

“Give me the Cup,” Gerard demanded.

“I want what you promised me first,” Peter said, trying to sound confident and strong but he seemed so meek.

“Why? Do you not trust me, Hale?”

Peter swallowed hard.

“I am a mad of my word,” Gerard assured him, but it wasn’t calming; he had the aura of a ‘hunter about him, one that was powerful and intimidating. “I know it must be hard for you to live a life of confinement: only allowed to be on your own when you’re trapped inside the walls of the Institute and if you are to step outside you must be accompanied like a dog on a leash.”

Peter bowed his head in shame.

“I know it’s hard for you to betray your dear sister and her kids, but you must remember; they betrayed us first,” Gerard said coldly. “Your sister and her husband turned their backs on us, they put you before the Clave and saw you punished in their place.”

“Then my vendetta is against Talia, not her children,” Peter replied. “My nephew nearly died retrieving the Cup.”

“The poor boy,” Gerard said without the slightest hint of sympathy in his voice. “Speaking of children, the boy?”

Peter turned and nodded towards Isaac.

“I thought I told you not to hurt him,” Gerard growled.

“It’s not his blood,” Peter assured him.

Gerard nodded. “Then you have held up your end of the bargain. Give me the cup and hold out your hand.”

Peter obeyed, handing the man the gleaming chalice and keeping his arm outstretched. The sleeve of his jacket slid up, revealing the blood-red rune that was carved into his flesh.

Gerard laid his hand over it, a black ooze spilling from something in his palm and creeping up Peter’s arm like Venom overcoming Spider-Man.  It dripped like ink from his fingers, coating his arm in black.

Peter let out a sigh. “It’s over… It’s gone.”

Gerard nodded, stepping around the stunned man and grabbed Isaac. He hoisted the boy over his shoulder and casually walked back through the Portal. It folded in on itself before disappearing, taking the Cup and Isaac with it.

Allison steadied herself, looking down at her wrist as she realised the healing rune had activated itself, floating to the surface of her skin like oil on water, swirling about before taking shape and pulling her wounds shut. The lattice of scratches and gouges across her face had healed, leaving smears of blood, sweat and tears across her face.

She rose to her feet, feeling the space around her. The air was clear but solid, like the two-way mirror in a police station.

She thumped her hand against the confiding wall, catching Peter’s attention.

“Let me out,” she sneered.

Peter shook his head. “You’d only try to kill me.”

“Damn right, I will,” Allison seethed. “You _gave_ him Isaac. He’ll kill him.”

“No, he won’t,” Peter said, making his way towards the library doors. “He needs him.”

“I can understand you wanting to be free, I can understand you handing him the Cup out of loyalty, but Isaac? … You deserve that curse,” Allison hissed.

Peter paused in the doorway. “You’re not one of us,” he said, his voice soft and full of remorse. “You can still leave. I can let you out and you can run, you can get as far away from here as you can. You can run and never look back… You can save yourself from this.”

“I won’t run,” Allison said defiantly.

Peter’s eyes filled with pain as he unlatched the library door and said, “Then you have my condolences.”

He turned and left.

“Peter!” Allison screamed, but he was gone.

The door swung shut behind him, leaving Allison alone in the silence.

She could hear her own uneven breathing as she fought back tears and ran her fingertips across the ungiving transparent barrier between her and the rest of the world. She let out a feral cry and flung herself at it again and again, feeling her arms and shoulders.

Her bones game way first, her shoulder cracking and radiating with pain as she dropped to her knees. She clutched it, feeling the searing agony prompt the healing rune on her wrist. The pain subsided and she slumped against the wall.

 _Think, Allison_ , she scolded herself. _Think!_

She felt something press into her thigh. She reached down to pick it up, turning it about in her hand for a moment as if she struggled to comprehend what she was holding.

Isaac’s stele.

He hadn’t taken it back from her and it had fallen out of her pocket when she hit the wall.

She leapt to her feet, her hand feeling the wall in front of her like the page of a sketchpad.

Her mind wandered, conjuring up swirls, lines and shapes she didn’t understand. She began to trace them in the air, watching as they flared red like cindering ashes before darkening to solid black lines.

There was a loud crash like shattering glass as the barrier was reduced to fragments of mirroring shards.

She tightened her grip on the stele and ran to the window, looking down onto the streets below. She saw a glimpse of Peter grossing the street, leaping up onto the pavement and blending into the sea of people.

He turned back, casting a glance in her direction.

He _knew_ she was watching him.

She felt around in the pocket of her jacket, pulling out the dagger Isaac had given her and rushing out of the library.

She bolted downstairs and onto the street, chasing after Peter’s fleeting figure. She chased him down the streets and through buildings, catching glimpses of him here and there. She saw him duck between two buildings and quickly followed him into the alleyway.

She shoved the stele in her pocket and readied her blade as she chased him.

She pulled up to a halt in the entrance of the ally, startled to see him standing proud, seemingly ignorant of the fact that he was cornered.

“You shouldn’t have followed me,” he scolded.

“I’ll let you go if you tell me where Gerard is,” she growled.

“I can’t do that,” Peter said, shaking his head. “He’ll know it was me who told you and my newly found freedom will be short-lived.”

“Your life is about the be short lived,” Allison growled. “You don’t care that your nephew nearly died getting that Cup, you only care that you tricked Isaac into giving it to you. He trusted you!”

“I fear Gerard more than I fear you,” Peter said, narrowing his piercing glare on Allison.

“Don’t underestimate me,” she hissed. “I’m not walking away from this. I won’t stand idly by and let Gerard kill innocent people.”

“That’s too bad,” Peter muttered, raising his arm. He held a chakram on his finger, spinning the jagged blade.

She caught a glimpse of silver as he flung the disc forward. She ducked aside just fast enough to narrowly miss the blade. She hit the ground hard, grunting as the rough gravel scratched her arms and her knees.

The chakram slammed into the metal fire escape of the nearby building.

Allison looked back down the alleyway.

Peter had another blade spinning on his finger.

She grabbed her blade and threw it.

The man cried out in pain as the blade slammed into his shoulder. He dropped his chakram and pulled the dagger out, blood gushing down his jacket sleeve.

Allison took advantage of his dropped defences; she leapt to her feet and charged at him, slamming her fist into his jaw.

He stumbled slightly but quickly recovered, catching her hand as she threw another punch. He shoved her hand back and returned the blow, knocking her to the ground. Her head hit the pavement hard, her vision blurred by bursts of light and colour before a weak breath fell past her lips and her eyes fell shut. The world beneath her gave way and her body dropped into the nothingness below.


	13. Eichen House

“I’m going to kill him,” Allison heard a familiar, soft voice say. It was Laura and she was clearly irritated, her voice full of tense anger. “I’m actually going to kill him. I don’t care if he’s my uncle, he’s drawn the last straw and I am sick of cleaning up his mess. He has betrayed us too many times.”

Allison blinked her eyes open looking up at the glaring lights of the infirmary.

“She’s awake,” Lydia announced.

Scott and Laura hurried to her side, each asking how she is and If she’s okay.

She brushed them aside, sitting upright. She waited for the world to stop spinning before rising to her feet. She turned and looked at them. “Where’s Peter?”

“Gone,” Scott said.

“Where’s Isaac?” Lydia asked her.

“I don’t know,” she muttered, staggering slightly. “Gerard took him… Peter gave him to Gerard.”

“And where are you going?” Lydia said sharply as Allison made her way towards the door.

“I’m going to find him.”

“How?” Laura asked.

“I don’t know,” Allison muttered. “But I’ll figure something out.”

“How did Gerard get in and out of the Institute without us knowing?” Lydia asked.

“He used a Portal.”

“I know where he is,” Stiles said. “Opening a Portal poses a massive risk to the warlock who opens it; that’s why I refuse to deal with them, and that’s why there are only two Portals in Beacon Hills. The first is in Marin’s apartment – that one was destroyed by the Greater Demon – and the other is in Eichen House.”

“Then that’s where I’m heading,” Allison stated, turning to walk towards the door.

“Allison, wait,” Laura called. “I’m going with you, just give me five minutes to get my things.”

“Me too,” Lydia said, rising to his feet.

“If it’s alright with all of you, I’ll stay to look after Cora and Derek,” Stiles offered.

“Thank you,” Laura whispered.

“Okay,” Scott said, joining Allison by the door. “I’ll get the engine running.”

 

 

They pulled up before the large brown brick building. It seemed perfectly normal, just like any other old building, but it felt different: it had an air around it, an impermeable, haunting chill. The old asylum had closed down years ago after the rumours about the orderlies abusing patients: beatings, electric shocks, drug overdoses, encouraged and assisted suicides; the list was never ending. Its name – Eichen House – became more fitting after it shut down; ‘Echo House’, ghostly resonance of the haunting halls and tortured souls.

The asylum was surrounded by an old iron fence, the bars too close to fit through and the tops sharpened to a point. The only entrance was the large gate and the paved path that lead up to the front doors. Around them was a garden and a terrace, surrounded by shadows that sent chills up their spines.

Scott glanced over his shoulder at Allison. She was dressed in the trademark Shadowhunter black attire: her torn clothes changed in exchange for a black tee-shirt tucked into high-waisted jeans and a leather jacket she had borrowed from Lydia. She had stuffed her dagger and Isaac’s stele into the pockets and had strapped a quiver over her shoulder. A black archery glove was strapped onto one of her hands and the other was tightened around a sleep black bow with glowing crystal curves embedded in it.

“I don’t suppose if I asked you to stay here, you would, would you?” he asked pleadingly.

“No way,” Allison muttered, her glare focused on the building.

“Didn’t think so,” Scott said with a sigh. He turned to Laura. “My pack will be here any minute now. He’s bound to have Forsaken and all sorts of demons waiting for us beyond that gate.”

“We’re ready for them,” Laura replied, tightening her grip on the brass-handled whip.

Scott nodded and turned back to Allison. “If you’re not going to stay here then you have to promise me that you’ll stay by my side and do what I say, okay?”

“Okay,” she agreed. “I promise.”

“Scott,” a young boy called, running over to their side.

Lydia flinched, readying her daggers but Scott held out his hand, stopping her.

“That’s Liam,” Scott said. “My very excitable beta… think of him as a Pomeranian on Adderall.”

Liam hurried over to Scott’s side.

“The pack’s here and waiting for orders,” he announced.

Scott nodded. “Let’s go.”

Laura took the lead, slamming her boot into the latch of the metal lock and busting the gate open.

The sound prompted the first barrage of Forsaken, their scarred, rotting, bloated bodies radiating stench as they charged forward.

Her heels disturbed the puddles as she casually strutted forward, stopping in the middle of the path. She kept her steely composure, relaxing her grasp on the whip and letting the could fall to the ground. Her dark eyes glanced about the charging hoard. “Alright, who’s first?”

Allison saw her swing her arm back, then she heard a crack split the air and the horrid, gurgled scream of a Forsaken hitting the ground. She swung her arm around swiftly, the whip swinging around before being hurled forward with a loud snap. Another Forsaken went down. She brought the whip around again, coiling it around the throat of a charging Forsaken. She jerked her arm back, pulling the whip tight and hauling the Forsaken forward. The creature hit the ground with a pained cry, but – without a second of hesitation – Laura drew an angel blade from her pocket and plunged it into the throat of the Forsaken.

The creature fell still and Laura turned her attention to the next advancing threat.

“I’m so glad I’m not Peter,” Scott muttered, staring at Laura with wide eyes. “I’d hate to be on her bad side.”

Lydia chuckled, readying her daggers as she too charged into battle.

“Liam,” Scott called. “Move in.”

The boy nodded, his body shifting in the moonlight, his face forming a snout and his body sprouting mocha-brown fur as he led the barrage; a stampede of wolves that burst into the gardens of Eichen House.

“Stay with me,” Scott said, resting his hand between Allison’s shoulder blade and guiding her towards the gate.

She ran with him, drawing an arrow from her quiver and notching it. She pulled the string taut and fired an arrow into the jugular of a Forsaken that charged at Lydia.

The creature whaled, thrashing about as it tried to grab the arrow with it’s bloated, disfigured hand.

Lydia spun around, noticing the creature behind her. She swung her leg around and slammed the heel of her boot into its chest.

It stumbled back slightly, but turned its attention away from the arrow in its throat, now focusing on Lydia.

Another Forsaken, the one she had been fighting before, grabbed her other leg, pulling it back and dropping her to the ground.

Allison opened her mouth to scream, reaching for another arrow when a wolf lunged forward, sinking their teeth into the arm of the Forsaken before charging at the advancing creature with the arrow in its neck.

Lydia fought toff the Forsaken that was grabbing at her legs, but she couldn’t get back on her feet.

Allison was too distracted to realise that there was a Forsaken charging right at them. She felt Scott’s hand disappear from her back and turned to watch him shift slightly; his nails extended into jagged claws, his chocolate-brown eyes glowing crimson red, and his pearly white teeth sharpened into fangs as he snarled and lunged at the creature.

He tore through the flesh of the creature, spilling blood and ichor across the lawn.

The creature swung at him with a blood-soaked sword but Scott nimbly dodged it, returning the blows and knocking the creature back.

The Forsaken was enraged, his eyes glowing red among the scar tissue of his face. He lashed out, slamming his hand into Scott’s chest and sending him flying back to the gate.

Allison screamed his name, but he fell limply against the small concrete ledge. She spun around and drew another arrow, notching it and pulling the string back. She let it fly, the arrow plunging deep into the Forsaken’s shoulder.

The creature turned on her, batting her back against the gate.

She hit the metal bars of the fence, hearing bones crack as she hit the ground.

She wanted to scream, but the sound didn’t rise to her lips.

She felt the healing rune on her wrist activate, but it did nothing to combat the searing agony that filled her chest.

She lifted her head, looking across the gardens to see the others in trouble: Scott was unmoving, Lydia was pinned down by Forsaken, the wolves were being thrown aside and slaughtered, and Laura was struggling to hold her own against the charging wave of warriors.

The Forsaken warrior they had been fighting stormed towards them, their heavy feet shaking the ground.

 _This is it_ , Allison thought, her head spinning and her vision blurring out of focus.

She let a weak breath fall past her lips as her body collapsed beneath her and her eyes began to fall shut.

 _This is how it ends_ , she thought, defeated.

She felt weak, broken.

She rolled onto her back, looking up at the starry sky above as the ground beneath her trembled. She watched as the stars blurred and the sky was consumed by a brilliant blue light.

 

 

Stiles sat by the hospital bed, his hand laying in Derek’s as he felt the faint ridges of the torture runes that were burnt into the palms of the young man’s hands.

It was eerily quiet.

Cora was upstairs, in the library, trying to distract herself by cleaning up and taking care of Deaton.

Derek woke with a start, bolting upright in the bed.

Stiles pranced to his feet, setting his hand on Derek’s chest and carefully guiding Derek back down onto the mattress as he whispered, “Easy now, Bright Eyes.”

“Where am I?” Derek muttered, looking around.

“You’re in the Institute’s infirmary,” Stiles told him. “You took quite a beating from the Greater Demon and the others called me in to help you.” The gentleness dropped from his voice as he continued, “Healing runes weren’t working, because of these.”

He lifted Derek’s hands, showing the young man the torture runes he had carved into his palms.

“Mind telling me why you did this?” Stiles asked, his voice firm and scolding.

Derek snatched his hands away. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me,” Stiles said.

“I need to be punished,” Derek muttered as he rose from the bed, swinging his legs over the edge and turning his back to Stiles. “I can’t be what you want me to be… I can’t be...”

“Can’t be what?”

Derek ignored him, rising from the bed.

“Can’t be what, Derek?” Stiles pushed.

“I can’t be gay!” Derek howled, turning on Stiles. The rage in his face quickly melted away as his eye fell on the figure by the door.

“Why not?” Cora asked, looking at her brother with a pained expression.

Derek didn’t answer; he couldn’t.

“Everyone knows, except Mum because she’s never around and Isaac because he’s as dumb as a pile of bricks, but my point is we all know and we don’t care, as long as you’re happy,” Cora said, looking at her brother with a pained expression.

Derek bowed his head shamefully.

“You punished yourself for something that you don’t need to be ashamed of,” Cora whispered. “You nearly died because of you were so…” Her words escaped her, tears coursing her cheeks as her anger brewing behind her dark eyes. “You’re so stupid!”

Derek opened his mouth to say something, but Cora was gone, running down the hallway. He let out a heavy sigh, dropping his gaze to the speckled linoleum.

After a moment, he glanced up at Stiles apologetically.

Stiles returned the glare with a fierce one. “For centuries, I cut myself off from feeling anything because I was scared of being hurt. I was _ashamed_ to be who I was. But when I met you… There’s something about you that made me feel comfortable, and for the first time in years, I opened myself up to someone.”

Derek stared at him stunned.

“I told you, you have nothing to be ashamed of,” Stiles said quietly, fighting back his own anger.

“I’m sorry,” Derek whispered.

Stiles drew in a deep breath and straightened his back.

A thought struck Derek. “Where are the others?”

“They’ve gone to find Gerard,” Stiles said. “Peter gave him both Isaac and the Cup and they’ve gone to get both of them back.”

“Where?” Derek asked, unable to hide the panic in his voice.

“Eichen House.”

“I’m going,” Derek said, making his way towards the door.

Stiles grabbed his arm, pulling him up to a halt. “You are in no condition to fight. I won’t let you go alone.”

“Then come with me,” Derek said impatiently.

Stiles’ grip weakened as he dropped his gaze and muttered, “I can’t.”

“Stiles--”

“I can’t!”

Derek flinched, glancing down at Stiles’ slender hands as he began to grab at the skin of his forearm where the torture rune sat beneath his sleeve.

Stiles quietened, unable to meet Derek’s gaze, “I’m sorry… I can’t.”

Derek stepped closer, gently cupping Stiles’ cheek and leaning forward to rest his forehead against Stiles’.

“My friend – my _family_ – are in danger. I need your help,” Derek whispered. “I promise, I won’t let them hurt you.”

Stiles glanced up through his eyelashes, his soft pink lips trembling slightly.

“Do you promise you won’t leave me there?” Stiles asked, his voice a quiet whimper.

“I promise,” Derek said.

Stiles nodded. “Then you had better get ready for a fight, Bright Eyes; we’re about to walk into a war.”

 

 

The brilliant blue blaze died down and Allison felt strong arms hoist her to her feet. A hand around her waist steadied her, guiding her towards another figure.

Her vision cleared slightly as she saw Scott, on his feet and rushing to her side. He took Allison in his arms as the person behind her relinquished his hold on her and turned around to fight.

Allison glanced back, watching as the young man drew and crystal-tipped arrow from his quiver and swiftly fired it into the knee of a charging Forsaken, dropping him to the ground as Stiles threw a ball of azure light at the creature, exploding him into a shower of blood and ichor.

“Derek,” Allison gasped, relieved and unable to take her eyes off the young man. “You’re okay.”

“Scott,” Stiles called over his shoulder. “I’ll clear a path for you, but you’ll have to run straight to the doors, got it? Derek and I will cover you.”

Scott nodded, holding Allison close.

Derek fired another arrow and ducked to the side, collecting the bow and dagger that had been knocked aside. He passed them to Allison, his clear aventurine eyes focused on her as he said, “You’re going to need these.”

Allison muttered a thank you as she took the weapons from him.

Stiles glanced down, his eyes focused on the threshold of Eichen House.

Derek took a step forward, resting his hand on Stiles’ shoulder. It slid down his arm as his fingers blushed against the palm of Stiles’ hand. He leant in close and whispered, “I’m right here with you and I‘m not leaving your side.”

Stiles drew in a deep breath and nodded. He shut his eyes for a second and when he opened them again, they glowed golden and the irises split like a cat’s. He held his hands out in front of him, the air between them glowing bright as he began to gather a pulse of magic.

Scott steadied his hand between Allison’s shoulder blades as Derek took a step back and readied his bow.

Stiles raised his hands and slammed them down, a tidal wave of radiant blue magic parting the crowd like the Red Sea.

“Move,” Derek shouted over the noise.

Stiles ran forward, leading the way for Scott and Allison while Derek brought up the rear.

A thundering roar split the air as one of the Forsaken warriors leapt to their feet and charged forward.

“Get her to the door!” Derek howled over the noise, pausing at the foot of the stairs that led up to the large oak doors. “Go!”

Allison hesitated.

“Go!”

“Don’t look back,” Scott whispered, guiding Allison up the stairs.

Derek turned and fired his arrow into the chest of the Forsaken, halting their advance. He grabbed the axe that was strapped onto his back and hurled it forward, wedging the crystal blade in the creature’s skull.

The creature hit the ground with a heavy thud.

Another Forsaken snuck past their defences and grabbed Derek by his throat, hoisting the young man off his feet.

Laura screamed his name, the cry making Stiles pull up to a halt. She lashed her whip forward, curling the end around the throat of the Forsaken and pulling back hard. The creature stumbled and dropped Derek, giving Stiles the chance he needed to build a vibrant ball of magic and hurl it at the Forsaken. It struck the creature in the chest, erupting him into cindering ashes.

Derek looked up at Stiles, his eyes wide with shock and glittering with gratitude.

Stiles glanced at Scott, his shoulders heaving up and down with bated breath as he said, “Go.”

Scott nodded and ran up to the front doors. He slammed his foot against the solid oak, the force of the blow splintering the wood as the doors burst open and sagged on their hinges. He ushered Allison across the threshold and into the quiet, dark foyer of the asylum.

“Are they going to be okay?” Allison uttered weakly as she looked over her shoulder at the mess of bodies on the front lawn.

“They’ll be okay,” Scott assured her. He turned to look at her, his dark eyes firm; the eyes of a leader. “Now, let’s do what we came here to do.”

Allison nodded and turned. She dug into her pocket, pulling out the large stone. The witchlight felt heavy in her hands as the dull glow lit the surroundings: the floor made of smooth granite and polished linoleum that had curled away from the skirting boards and buckled with age, the walls that were once painted white but were now a dull grey and covered in patches of mould and water-rot.

Allison adjusted her grip on the witchlight so she could draw an arrow from her quiver and notch it, making her way over to the old, decrepit stairwell.

Her breathing was shallow as she tried to listen to her surroundings, her hands surprisingly steady on her bow.

Once upstairs they found themselves in a small foyer that spread into several hallways and, ahead of them, circled around to a set of large doors.

Scott set his hand between Allison’s shoulder blades and led her towards one of the curving platforms.

As she stepped forward, she noticed it was a spiralling staircase that lead to the higher levels of the asylum. She looked up, her breath catching in her throat as she spied the slack noose hanging from one of the higher railings. She tore her eyes away, making her way toward the nearby door.

It was left ajar slightly, the dark shadows seeping into the hallway.

Allison swallowed hard, tightening her grip on her bow as she pushed the door open.

The room was large and surprisingly well furnished: the walls were painted a pale blue and decorated a few geometric art pieces. On the far wall was a dresser and in the centre of the room sat a large bed, surrounded by ornate posts and a sky-blue silk canopy. The small white-wood tables beside the bed were covered in various jars and syringes full of colourful liquids and various medications. The room was empty except for the figure that lay still on the bed, dressed in white and ghostly pale.

A broken sob fell from Allison’s lips as she lowered her bow and raced forward, leaping onto the bed and gently jostling the man’s shoulders.

“Dad,” she whimpered, her voice breaking under the strain as tears welled in her eyes. “Dad, please, wake up.”

She looked down, noticing the small tube that ran from the IV in her dad’s forearm to the glass jar of fluid on the table. The next thing that caught her attention were the thick manacles ground to her father’s wrists and the brown leather restraints that tied him to the bed.

Her hands trembled slightly as she unbuckled the leather belts and pulled the IV from her father’s arm.

She eyed the gleaming manacles, unsure of how to undo them. She looked at Scott, panicked. “We need to get him out of here.”

“I can’t touch those,” Scott said, disheartened. “They’re silver and the runes mean warlock magic won’t work on them either.”

“I’m not leaving him,” Allison cried.

“I’m not asking you to,” Scott said softly. “I promise we’re not leaving without him--”

“That’s a bold promise,” a somewhat-familiar voice said.

Rage twisted Scott’s features as he spun around, fangs dropped and claws ready.

Peering over his shoulder, Allison saw a familiar figure; the young man who had come to visit Scott when she and Isaac snuck into his apartment: Jackson.

“I’m surprised to see you here,” Jackson said, his voice deep and raspy.

“We didn’t exactly make a quiet entrance,” Scott replied. “And after everything you and Gerard have done, do you really find it surprising that I’d be here?”

“What happened to staying out of Gerard’s way?” Jackson asked.

“Things change,” Scott growled. He nodded toward Chris’ still figure on the bed. “What has Gerard done to him?”

Jackson shrugged nonchalantly.

“What does he want with Chris?” Scott pushed. “He has the Cup; Chris can’t be of further use to the old man, so why is Gerard keeping him?”

“Sentimentality,” Jackson said as if it were a joke. “Or perhaps he just wants to make the son who betrayed him suffer.”

“I won’t let you touch him,” Allison howled.

Scott held out a hand as if he were ready to stop her if she charged at Jackson.

Jackson just eyed the girl, a smirk playing across his thin lips as he looked her up and down.

“Let Chris go and I will call off my pack,” Scott offered. “We’ll leave peacefully.”

“What about Isaac?” Allison whispered, scrambling off the bed and over to Scott’s side.

He used his outstretched hand to usher her behind his broad body – his eyes still fixed on Jackson with a predatory glint.

“Listen to me carefully, Allison,” he whispered. “You have to find Isaac… I promise I will not let him hurt your father.”

“Scott…” Allison’s words failed her as she realised what was about to happen. “No…”

Jackson drew a blade from beneath the billowing leather of his jacket, the sharp edge of the sword – a mix of diamond and sliver – gleaming as it caught the light of the glowing stone in her hand.

Scott’s lips moved around a single word, but the sound of her racing heartbeat and hollow breathing drowned out the sound. His lips fell still and he arched his back slightly, bracing himself like a wolf about to pounce.

He growled, his eyes flaring red as he lunged at Jackson, knocking the man back into the hallway.

“ _Run_.”

A rush of air hit Allison as she grabbed her bow, kicked up her heels, and sprinted into the hallway, leaping over the two bodies that thrashed about on the ground. She ran down the hall until the muscles in her legs burnt with pain and her lungs ached for air. Tears caressed her cheeks, washing away the streams of blood that trickled down her face; the effort of their battles opening up some of the larger gashes Hugo had left on her face that the _iratze_ had not healed.

She yelped as she ran into a solid figure, trying to pull back and fight but they had a solid hold on her.

“Allison,” a familiar voice said softly, his grip tight as he fought back against her thrashing.

Allison stilled, looking up at the young man’s bright aventurine eyes. “Derek?”

“Are you alright?” Stiles asked from where he stood beside the Shadowhunter, his fingers tangled in the hem of Derek’s shirt.

“My dad is in a room down the hall chained to a bed,” she muttered. “Scott’s fighting Jackson and I haven’t found Isaac or the Cup yet.”

Derek set her down on her feet and said, “We’ll help you.”

Allison nodded, unable to find the words for how grateful she was that they were there. She took a second to calm her racing heart, ignoring the sound of vicious snarling and tearing flesh that came from the hallway behind her. She tightened her grip on her bow, notching the arrow she was holding from when she had cast aside her weapon to take care of her father. She turned towards the large oak doors.

She shoved them open and aimed the bow.

Her sharp gaze surveyed the room.

What had once been the dining hall and lounge room of the asylum had now been redecorated and refurnished to be a lavish dining room. The walls were painted gold and covered in draping velvet curtains. In the centre of the room sat a large mahogany table, the edges embedded with a gold seam that matched the decorative patterns on the fine china plates that were set out across the table. A large banquet had been set out: stews, succulent roasts, pasta, various finger-foods, fresh fruits and vegetables, pitchers of juices, crystal-like clear water in large decanters, and sweet delicacies. Along the table were candles and candelabras, all lit and casting a golden glow across the room.

Allison tucked her whichlight away in her pocket and stepped into the room. She froze as her gaze fell upon the figure at the end of the room.

“Isaac,” she gasped, lowering her bow and racing across the large room to where the boy sat, slumped back against the wall with his arms restrained.

The boy bolted upright at her voice, his eyes wide as he breathed a sigh of relief.

Allison dropped to her knees and fell into his arms.

He held her close, his warm embrace familiar and comforting as he ran his fingers through her hair, cupping the back of her skull and cradling her into the curve of his shoulder.

“Thank the Angel above,” he gasped. “You’re okay.”

“ _I’_ m okay?” Allison muttered, sitting back on her heels. “ _You_ were the one who was taken.”

“And the last I saw of you, Peter sicked his raven on you,” Isaac pointed out. “I heard you scream and then I blacked out and you--” he said, staring at Derek. “--you were lying in the infirmary dying. I’m so happy to see you’re alive.”

“You’re welcome,” Stiles said.

Allison’s eyes rolled over the boy, stunned by his appearance; he had been cleaned of the blood and ichor she had seen him covered in hours ago and dressed in a pressed pair of suit pants and a white shirt that was threadbare enough that she could see the dark lines of the Marks and the pale lines of the scars that covered his chest. He had been _groomed_.

Isaac paused for a moment, looking from Allison to Derek and Stiles – the warlock making his way over to their side while Derek kept his bow drawn and ready, guarding the door. “What are you doing here?”

“We came to rescue you,” Stiles said as he knelt down next to Allison. “Although I’d be happy to leave you and just take Chris and the Cup.”

“It’s good to see you too,” Isaac said sarcastically.

A smirk played across Stiles’ lips as he inspected the cuffs that were clamped around Isaac’s wrists.

“They’re like the ones holding my dad,” Allison remarked. “Made with silver so a werewolf can’t touch it--”

“And embedded with runes so a warlock’s spell can’t break them,” Stiles finished, his amber eyes gliding along the links of the chain and up to the fixtures in the wall. “Derek,” he called over his shoulder. “I need to borrow your axe.”

“Why?” Derek asked suspiciously as he unhitched the axe from the clip on his back and held it out for Stiles.

“I need to break something,” Stiles replied, taking the axe from Derek.

“Promise me it’s not Isaac’s skull you intend to break,” Derek said warningly as he watched Stiles cross the room, rolling up his sleeves and tightening his grip on the handle of the weapon.

Stiles smirked and winked at him.

Derek’s scowl didn’t waver.

“I’m joking,” Stiles assured him. “While that is _oh so_ tempting, no; I don’t intend to break Isaac’s skull. If that does happen, it’s an accident – a happy accident, but an accident no less.”

Stiles stepped up to Isaac’s side, ignoring the boy’s fierce glare.

“Stand back,” he instructed Allison, waiting until she scrambled back to the leg of the large table before lifting the gleaming axe high into the air and slamming it into the wall. The rune on the brick above the fixture glowed bright red like a piece of tissue paper lit on fire before shrivelling and vanishing into cindering ashes; the fixtures falling from the wall and the chains shattering into glistening glass-like shards.

Allison scurried forward and caught Isaac as he slumped forward, resting his forehead against her shoulder.

“I thought only Shadowhunters could use those weapons,” she muttered, amazed.

“They’re made with warlock magic,” Stiles explained. “And – as a warlock – I get special privileges.”

He pulled the axe back out of the wall and walked back to Derek’s side, handing it back to the young man with a proud smile. Derek whispered something to him and his smile became something more genuine, a soft blush colouring his cheeks.

Isaac looked up, his deep blue eyes wandering over their shoulders. His face drained of colour as his expression twisted into one of terror. He opened his mouth to say something, but he was too late.

Stiles cried out in shock as he was hurled back, his arms pinned to his side and a blade pressed to his throat. His hands flinched, but he didn’t have the magic left in him to fight.

The man behind him looked at them with a scowl, his dark eyes focusing on each of their faces as he snarled, “Hello, children. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”


	14. Gerard

Derek and Allison grabbed their bows, pulling the strings taut and aiming the arrows at the man.

“Oh, come now,” Gerard said condescendingly, an amused smile lifting the corners of his lips. “My reflexes are just as fast as yours. Do you really think those arrows will hit me before I move this Downworlder’s head in the way?”

“Let him go,” Derek growled, his arrow still trained on the man.

Gerard ignored him, his dark eyes honing in on Allison.

“Hello, Allison,” he said softly. “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure. I’m--”

“I know who you are and this is not a pleasure,” Allison snapped.

Gerard raised his brow, stunned by her hostility. But the surprise on his face faded as he – almost reminiscently – said, “You are just like your father.”

“I’d rather be like him than be like you.”

Gerard ignored that comment, his gaze still focused on her. “I propose a trade. I’ll spare this pathetic Downworlder’s life if you come with me.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Stiles said with acidic sarcasm. “The sociopath, the comatose son and the granddaughter who wants to kill him. It sounds like the perfect family reunion.”

“Shut up, warlock,” Gerard hissed, pulling the knife closer to Stiles’ throat.

Stiles swallows hard, his Adam’s apple knocking against the knife and the gleaming blade breaking the skin just enough to draw a single ruby-red droplet of blood.

“It’s your choice, Allison,” Gerard said softly.

Allison looked at Stiles, her eyes full of pain.

Stiles met her gaze and slowly shook his head, ignoring the blade that left a shallow cut on his throat.

The softness fell from Gerard’s features, his eyes darkening and his face set in a scowl as he drew his stele from his pocket and said, “So be it.”

With an immeasurable speed, he put the tip of the stele to the pale skin of Stiles’ arm and traced the lines of the scar. The torture rune lit up blood red, burning into his flesh.

Stiles let out a blood-curdling howl, his body convulsing as he lifted his face to the heavens and screamed. Glistening tears streamed down his cheeks. He cried as if someone were skinning him alive, tearing every millimetre of skin away from his bones.

Gerard pulled the knife away from his throat and tossed the boy towards Derek.

Derek lowered his bow, falling to his knees as he caught Stiles. He held the boy in his lap, whispering softly to him and gently brushing back his tousled chestnut hair.

Now that Stiles was free, Allison didn’t hesitate to fire the arrow.

Gerard snatched it out of the air, glancing down at it as if it were as slow and unimpressive as her throwing a balloon at him.

“That’s not any way to treat your grandfather,” he scolded.

“Go to hell,” Allison hissed, notching another bow.

“I was rather hoping we could do this peacefully, Allison,” Gerard said, sounding slightly bored. “I’m sure, by now, many people have told you about my vision.”

“Do you mean your plans for the genocidal elimination of Downworlders and the forced genetic mutation of humans into Nephilim despite the fact that the conversion could kill the majority of them because you have your own sickening concept of a Shadowhunter version of the Aryan race?” Allison asked rehtorically.

“I had suspected that they would skew it and twist it to sound vile,” Gerard mused. “I wish to save these people from themselves, to make them the best they can be: pure… Well, you see, in order to do that, you need to mix human blood with that of an angel. Nephilim blood will not do; the ratio of human blood to angel blood changes between generations. In order to create Nephilim, you must use the purest blood; angel blood.”

Gerard turned, strolling around the large table and plucking a white lily from the large bouquet of flowers that sat as a centrepiece. He turned it about in his fingers admiring the frail petals as he continued, “Angels were thought to be extinct, but – as luck would have it – two live. You see, Nephilim create Nephilim children, but ever so rarely the genetics of the Angel come through and Nephilim produce a child that has pure angel blood. And, as my luck would have it, two were born in the last eighteen years and both live in Beacon Hills.”

Gerard held the lily to the flickering candle flame, watching as the veiny white petals were engulfed in flames. He tossed it across the room, the flower falling beside Derek as he held onto Stiles’ thrashing body.

Gerard ignored the screaming warlock and turned to Allison and Isaac as he said, “As my luck would have it, the two of you were delivered right to me. You can’t tell me that’s not destiny?”

“Maybe not, but I can tell you you’re insane,” Allison replied. “I’m not an angel. A week ago, I was just a normal kid.”

“Allison… Dear, sweet Allison,” Gerard said softly. “You were never normal.”

“And you were never one to be trusted,” Allison countered, her voice firm and her glare fierce. “You are a liar, a traitor, and we cannot trust a single word that comes from your mouth.”

“I am your grandfather, you can trust me.”

“Just because your blood runs in my veins does not mean you have my trust,” Allison snapped.

Stiles’ heartbreaking cries escalated, making everyone freeze.

“Shut him up,” Gerard snapped.

Derek spat words at him in another language that Allison didn’t know, but she was sure that whatever he was saying was full of expletives because Gerard’s eyes flew open wide with rage.

Allison took advantage of his dropped defences, firing an arrow.

The tip slammed into the man’s shoulder and let out a wailing cry of pain. He grabbed at the arrow and tore it from his flesh, blood dripping from the wound.

He turned his glare to Allison and Isaac.

“The two of you are coming with me,” he said with finality.

“I don’t think so,” came another voice as the shadows of the doorway. A pair of bright red eyes glowed in the darkness as the figure made a low, animalistic growl.

The figure bounded into the room, sprinting across the distance and leaping at Gerard. He grabbed the man by the shoulders, using the momentum of his advance to knock the man off balance and flip him onto his back.

Gerard hit the ground with a painful thud, quickly recovering. He leapt to his feet and drew a sword from his belt. He spun around and slammed the heel of his boot into the newcomer’s cheek, knocking him to the ground.

Scott retaliated, slashing upwards with his jagged claws.

Gerard stepped backwards, dodging the attack and giving Scott the chance he needed to leap to his feet. He charged forward, grabbing Scott by his throat and hoisting him off his feet. A maniacal grin split his face as Scott squirmed in his grip, grabbing at his arm and kicking at him in an attempt to break free. He brought his sword forward, holding it before the young man’s body, ready to deliver a lethal blow.

“Scott,” Allison cried, quickly firing an arrow into Gerard’s shoulder.

Gerard flinched for a moment, but quickly returned to his stance.

“Isaac,” Derek called, unhitching his axe from his back and sliding it across the floor.

In one swift motion, Isaac grabbed the axe, the gleaming blade lighting up as he lunged forward and wedged the blade into the man’s shoulder blade.

The old man’s back arched as he let out a vicious cry. He recoiled pulling back from the two of them.

The healing rune on the side of his throat darkened slightly, pulling shut his wounds as he turned, snatched something off the table and ran for the hallway.

Allison caught a glimpse of it as he left the room, the blood-red rubies gleaming as they caught the light.

“The Cup,” she gasped as she kicked up her heels and ran after Gerard.

“Allison,” Scott howled, scrambling to his feet and chasing after her, Isaac following him.

She ran out into the hallway, sprinted up the stairs and bounded into one of the rooms. She burst into the room, pulling the string of her bow taut and aiming the notched bow at the man in the centre of the room.

“Don’t move,” she growled.

Gerard froze, slowly turning around to face her.

Behind him, she could see a large Portal. The light swirled and dripped like watercolour before opening up into another world full of emerald green fields, lush trees, clear blue skies, blossoming flowers and a large stone house in the distance. She could hear the tweeting of birds, the rustle of leaves and the quiet trickling of water. She could smell the sweet honeysuckle and the crisp breeze.

“Come with me, Allison,” Gerard said softly. “Come with me to Idris, to your home.”

“That is not my home,” Allison said defiantly. “My home is here.”

A glint of fury twisted the old man’s features, but just as quickly as it had come, it vanished; his face was composed and calm as he said, “Very well.”

He took a step back, his feet landing on the soft grass.

“You may be armed, Allison, but you will not defeat me,” he said.

“I will stop you,” Allison growled through gritted teeth.

“Then do it,” he challenged, holding his arms outright and exposing his chest. “Fire the arrow. Kill me.”

Allison glared at him. She let the steady breath fall past her lips, but didn’t move.

A wicked grin lit up Gerard’s face as he held his sword upright.

Allison let the arrow fly.

Gerard brought the sword down on the Portal.

The arrow passed the barrier, but Allison didn’t see if it hit; the Portal fractured with fissures that radiated outwards like breaking ice before shattering. The shards of glass rained around her, sweeping across the floor like a bucket of spilled ice, like fragments of a mirror that held the illusion of the world on the other side as they pooled around her feet.

She heard a scurry of feet as Scott and Isaac came racing into the room.

“Where’s Gerard?” Isaac panted.

“Gone,” Allison muttered, staring at the blank space where the Portal had been.

“And the Cup?” Scott asked.

“He took it to Idris.” She slowly turned around, her face as solemn and fierce as her father’s but her dark eyes filled with pain as she whispered, “I couldn’t stop him… I’m so sorry.”

Allison expected them to be mad, she expected a burst of anger, an outcry of rage, but there was nothing. They both stood in the doorway, looking back at her with the same pained expression.

Scott held out his hand and she took it. He steadied her as he guided her out of the mess of shattered glass.

Isaac stepped forward, crouching down to inspect one of the larger fragments of glass.

“Isaac,” Allison whispered, her voice tense as if she expected him to wield it like a dagger and hurt himself.

He didn’t react, he just turned it back and forth in his hands, his bright sapphire eyes watching the world beyond.

“Isaac,” she called again, cautiously taking a step forward and crouching by his side.

“It’s my home,” the boy whispered.

She glanced over his shoulder, watching as he tilted the fragment of glass to reveal the large brick house in the distance; vines of jasmine and ivy climbing up the walls, rosebushes lining the path that led up to the front door, the small windowsills with a collection of whittled wooden toys and scavenged stones lined up on them.

Scott said something, but Allison didn’t hear it. He turned and made his way back down the halls, leaving the two of them in silence.

Allison carefully reached out, her warm hands cupping Isaac’s cold ones as she gently pried the shard of glass from his hands. She slid it into his pocket, knowing he would want to keep it, and cupped his hand in hers.

She looked at him, taking in the heavy bruises that marred his pale skin, the welts and blisters that he cuffs had left.

“Not a drop,” he rasped, staring down at the small beads of scarlet blood that welled along the lines where the shard of glass had cut his fingers. “He wouldn’t spill a drop… What am I?”

Allison felt her heart sink into her stomach. She reached forward and pulled Isaac into her arms.

She wanted to tell him that he was the same person he’d always been, that nothing would change, but the words didn’t rise to her lips.

He collapsed into her hold like a rag doll, weak and still for a moment before he reached up and balled her jacket into his fists, holding her close.

She cupped the back of his head, cradling him to her chest as she rested her cheek on the crown of his head. She heard him whisper something, but the word was muffled as he buried his face in her chest. He repeated it over and over again, like a mantra, a prayer, a sob.

He shifted his head slightly and she heard it; one word: her name.


	15. (Epilogue) The Aftermath

The speckled linoleum of the hallway strobed in her eyes as she made her way down the stark white hallways of the hospital.

Allison froze in the doorway, her eyes drifting across the room to her father’s crippled form. His eyes were shut and under the bright light of the hospital room they looked bruised and hollow. A plastic mast was fitted over his face, his breathing slow and shallow like sleep while the mask supplied him with the oxygen he needed. It was as if the illusions that had clouded her mind were gone; she could now see the thin white scars that covered the deathly pale skin of his body and the blood-red Circle rune that cat on his neck like a circle of melted scarlet wax. Something else caught her attention, scattered black runes that were only visible to those with the Sight. His arms – once strong, now frail – sat atop the white sheets, the ghostly tone of his skin bleeding in to the cotton. Thick bandages were coiled around his limbs and his chest, smaller dressings covering the wounds on his cheek, neck, and his forearms. An IV ran down into his forearm, slowly dripping water and whole blood into his veins.

The machines around him beeped and whined. The thin green line of the heart monitor peaked and fell with a regular beat. He was alive.

Melissa – Scott’s mum – sat in the plastic chair by the bed, holding Chris’ hand and talking softly to him. Her hair was a mess of dark curls and the shadows under her eyes proved that she had been there for hours, days even; she refused to leave his side unless Allison or Scott were there or if she was called away on an emergency or to do her rounds.

Her eyes drifted to the other person in the room, the tall figure dressed in black and standing by the window. His leather jacket sat comfortably on his square shoulders and his aventurine eyes stared dreamily out the window.

Derek.

Before Allison could talk, Melissa rose from the seat. She stepped over to the girl’s side, cupping the back of her head and pressing a kiss to her forehead.

Allison smiled weakly and asked, “How is he?”

“He’s okay,” Melissa whispered reassuringly. “The doctors aren’t exactly sure what had happened to him, but he seems to be sleeping, not comatose, so there’s more of a chance that he’ll wake up.”

Allison nodded.

“You can sit with him for as long as you want,” Melissa told her. “And you can stay with Scott or with me for as long as you need. And I’ll come back and sit with you as soon as I’ve finished my shift.”

“Thank you,” Allison said, stepping aside to let Melissa out of the room. She heard the door shut with a quiet hush as Melissa left the two alone.

“You were the last person I expected to see here,” Allison said, looking at Derek.

The young man turned around and gestured to the door frame. “I came to see how he was. I put some runes up for protection. They’re connected to your dad and they’ll keep anything and anyone who your dad perceives as a threat out of this room.”

“Thank you,” Allison whispered.

“I also came to thank you,” Derek said, stepping over to Allison’s side. “I know I didn’t kill that Greater Demon; I’ve never killed a demon, but thank you.”

“For lying to you?”

“For giving me peace if I was to die,” Derek corrected.

Allison looked at him, sensing the hint of disappointment in his lack of demon-killing feats. She met his gaze and said, “You may not have ever killed a demon, but you’re the strongest in the team: the leader; you take care of everyone, you show strength and compassion.”

A soft blush coloured Derek’s cheeks as he bowed his head to hide his smile. After a moment, he regained his composure, meeting her gaze with eyes full of sympathy as he said, “You are nothing like Gerard. Whatever he said to you, whatever happened at Eichen House, don’t let it get to you.”

Allison blinked back the tears that welled in her eyes and nodded.

Derek knelt before the leg of her chair, gently resting his hand on her arm. “Are you okay?”

Allison shook her head. “I feel like everything’s been turned upside down. The world’s so different.”

“The world’s still the same, you just see it differently now,” Derek said softly.

“Everything I’ve been told, all the stories about who I was… they were all lies.”

“That doesn’t change who you are,” he countered, his bright aventurine eyes sparkling as he looked at her. “You’ll always be Allison. You’re kind, selfless and strong, nothing is ever going to change that. And I want you to know that you are not alone, we’re all here for you. And if you ever need us, we’re just a call away. You are always welcome at the Institute; it’s your home too,” Derek told her.

“Thank you.”

“I’ve got to head off; there’s somewhere else I have to be,” Derek said as he rose to his feet. He rested a hand against her shoulder. “We’re here for you.”

Allison smiled sweetly and nodded.

He made it to the door before she called his name, making him sop and turn around. He raised his brow questioningly.

Her smile widened into a mischievous grin as she said, “Say hi to Stiles for me.”

Derek opened his mouth to argue, but the words fell short. He closed his mouth, exhaling heavily as he curly nodded and turned towards the door.

 

 

Derek shoved his hands into his pockets, making his way across town in the soft orange light of the setting sun. He made his way into the abandoned streets at the far end of town to where the buildings were decrepit: old workshops and industrial buildings in ruins.

He stepped up to one of the large buildings and reached forward and rang the doorbell, but the locks clicked open before he got the chance.

He felt a smile lift his cheeks as he pushed the door open and stepped into the building. He climbed the small fleet of stairs and entered Stiles’ loft.

The boy greeted him at the door, dressed in a pair of old blue jeans and a dark grey Star Wars tee-shirt that was overlaid with a blue and grey plaid shirt. His hair was tousled about carelessly and his mole speckled cheeks dipped into dimples as he smiled at Derek. “Hello, Bright Eyes.”

“How did you know it was me?” Derek asked.

“My powers are stronger than you could ever imagine,” Stiles said, trying to sound mysterious. His smile broke the illusion as he added, “And I saw you crossing the street.”

Derek couldn’t help but chuckle.

His bright eyes fell on the small creatures that scrambled about the loft floor. There was a small crowd of cats of all kinds: a ginger with long fur that moved like a cloud catching the light of the setting sun, a tricoloured cat with only three legs, a short-haired white cat with scars that covered half of its face and accentuated the kitten’s missing eye and torn ear, a little swarm of kittens that looked barely days old and a pure-black cat that curled up with a silky white and grey patchy cat.

Stiles seemed to notice Derek’s gaze.

“They’re strays,” he explained. “My door is always open to them. Here they find food, shelter, care and love.”

He looked up and met Derek’s gaze as he added, “Not all Downworlders are heartless monsters.”

“I never thought they were,” Derek whispered. “You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

He expected a witty response – something calling him out on the fact that he was reciting the words back to the young man – or a bright smile, but Stiles stayed still, staring out the window at the colours that streaked the sky.

A short-haired grey cat rubbed up against Derek’s leg, mewing loudly.

Derek froze, unsure what to do.

“That’s Deucalion,” Stiles explained, glancing over his shoulder at the man and the cat. “He’s old and he thinks he’s the alpha around here. Just ignore him and keep walking; the worst he’ll do is throw a tantrum.”

Derek stepped over the cat and followed Stiles out onto the balcony of his loft.

In the light of day, he could see how different Stiles looked; his face was pale and dark circles shadowed his eyes.

“We need to talk,” Derek said softly. “About what happened at Eichen House.”

Stiles flinched slightly and swallowed hard. He dropped his gaze to his ring-covered slender fingers. He looked pale and hollow, a shadow of the man he once was, as his trembling fingers traced the rosy-pink scar on his forearm. “That torture rune made me relive all of the memories I have spent centuries trying to forget.”

Derek felt his heart sink into his stomach as he whispered pleadingly, “Tell me what I can do to fix this.”

Stiles solemnly shook his head. “This is just me… I-I… I never wanted you to see this ugly side of me… I’m weak.”

“Hey,” Derek whispered, reaching over to the boy and picking up his hand.

Stiles glanced up, meeting Derek’s kind gaze and staring longingly into the shimmering depths of his aventurine eyes.

“You’re not weak,” Derek said softly. “You are the strongest person I know; you went back to the place that haunts your past, you stood in those halls and faced your past, you survived the torture rune – _twice_ – and you came out on top. You won. You survived because you are stronger than anyone I have ever known.”

Stiles bowed his head, gently biting into his lip. “I wanted to prove to you that I--”

“You don’t ever have to prove yourself,” Derek interrupted, his voice firm but soft. “Not to me or anyone else. Okay?”

Stiles glanced up at him again, unable to tear is eyes away this time.

Derek returned the gaze, immersing himself in the depths of the young man’s gorgeous golden eyes. His breath hitched in his throat, his lips quivering as he cupped Stiles’ cheek and leant forward. He brought his lips to Stiles’ in a tender kiss.

He felt Stiles exhale, his shoulders dropping as his hand trailed up to Derek’s throat. His nimble fingers traced Derek’s jaw before sliding to the back of his neck, running through his cropped raven-black hair and drawing him into the kiss. His other hand grasped at a fistful of Derek’s shirt.

Derek tilted his head, deepening the kiss and letting their passion take over. He let his defences drop, melting into the kiss that felt so right.

**Author's Note:**

> celestialvoid-fanfiction.tumblr.com


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